


Rage Against The Dying Of The Light

by VeteranKlaus



Series: Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Demons, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Pining, falling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-14 06:15:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19267489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeteranKlaus/pseuds/VeteranKlaus
Summary: It just so happened to be that, on the way to find the antichrist now hiding away in America, with little time until Armageddon, Crowley and Aziraphale happened upon a trio of monster hunters intent on doing the same as them.





	1. Every Star Fell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first Good Omens fic, so I hope it's not too utterly terrible; in addition, I've not watched Supernatural for a fair time, either, but I'm doing my best, and hopefully you'll like it!

Now, Crowley had not been to America since 1865, where he had stood in the shadows and watched President Abraham Lincoln die. It hadn't even been his fault; humans were simply  _like that._ He had, however, taken the credit for it. 

But yes, Crowley had not been to America since, and his stay hadn't even been that long. He'd gotten a hot dog somewhere, and it had been a pretty good hot dog, if one were to ask him. Otherwise, everything else about that day had been pretty insignificant to him. Perhaps if he had stayed he might become familiar to the mass of supernatural hunters there. Hell, if he'd even simply spoken to another demon or creature around there, he probably would have heard about them. But he hadn't, simply returning to London with the eagerness of a homesick puppy. London was his domain, and he'd prefer it to America any day.

Nonetheless, he still found himself going there with Aziraphale in tow. With but days until Armageddon and the antichrist supposedly somewhere in America, the duo were quick to head over. Perhaps going together wasn't the smartest idea - both God and Lucifer knew that was most definitely not the wisest decision - but Aziraphale was simply so horrifically excited to travel to America, for he missed it so dreadfully much, and they did have business to discuss. They got two seats together - Crowley would have preferred the aisle seat so he would be able to stretch his legs out slightly, but again, Aziraphale simply _had_ to sit by the window like an excited child, watching the plane lift off into the air and soar above the clouds. (And didn't that sight make Crowley feel so horrifically sick and sad; the last time he'd been above the clouds like this, he had been free-falling fast enough to catch fire and crash into a boiling pool of sulphur.) Therefore, Crowley had to sit in the middle; they couldn't talk about Armageddon with some poor fool stuck between them.

"We'll be touching down soon," commented Aziraphale, turning his bright eyes from the window and to Crowley. He had slept for the majority of the flight, uncomfortably crushed between the angel and a stranger, and he was still half-asleep. He groaned, fixing his askew sunglasses and rubbing his cheek to rid it of the red lines that matched the fabric of his sleeve.

"Yup," he grumbled cheerily, blinking and glancing out the window. The ground was approaching them now, Lebanon, Kansas, greeting them with an eerie peacefulness, everyone so utterly oblivious to the demonic eleven year old about to end the world hidden somewhere nearby. 

"Do we know where the boy is?" Asked Aziraphale, his hands clasped upon his lap. Had he slept at all this flight? Even if it hadn't been the longest flight they had been on, Crowley had expected him to get some sleep. Crowley blew out a long breath, tipping his head to the side. 

"Ugh, yeah. He's with that, uh, fancy family, huh?" He bounced his shoulders in a shrug. "We've just gotta find him before the hellhound gets to him."

"We still haven't discussed what we're actually going to do once we find the kid," stated Aziraphale, voice falling a bit quieter, and Crowley pressed his lips together.

"He's the antichrist," he replied, "what do you think we can do with him?" He shuffled in the small aeroplane seat, listening to the ding to signal the necessity of seatbelts, little light flickering on above his head. The stranger next to him jolted awake with a snort, eyes flicking around before they slumped back into the seat with a sigh. Aziraphale didn't look pleased with Crowley's answer, and hell, Crowley certainly wasn't either; he wasn't all over the idea of killing a kid, antichrist or not, but what was he supposed to do? Armageddon wasn't about to wait for morals.

"Well, maybe we could... help him." Aziraphale nodded, as if solidifying the idea in his own head. "Yes. We could help him rather than kill him." 

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "He's the _antichrist_ , Angel. I don't know about you, but I don't think Satan's son is down to negotiate the end of everything over a nice pot of tea." He scoffed, shaking his head. Aziraphale frowned at him, face drooping as he sighed, melting into the seat and turning once more to look out the window.

The plane came to a descent and Crowley found himself with both his own bag in his hand - full of spare sunglasses, a bottle of whiskey he'd bought at the airport, and two books that couldn't fit into Aziraphale's bag - and also Aziraphale's bag - heavy with the weight of age-old books. Aziraphale himself was scurrying by his side, enthusiastically talking about being in America as if they were on a field trip. Crowley, for the life of him, could not bring himself to tell him to calm down.

Outside the sun bore down on them, hot and heavy, their shadows long in the dying sunlight, crawling up the pavement behind them. Crowley's shoes tap-tap-tapped on the floor like a soft rhythm, and Aziraphale hailed them a taxi which took them to into the city of Lebanon and deposited them outside  _"whatever motel"_ as per Crowley's request. Aziraphale checked them in and Crowley dropped their bags at the foot of either double bed in the mustard-coloured room. The angel perched himself on the edge of the bed and Crowley dropped onto his own, flinging his arms out across it. 

"What's on your mind?" Asked the demon, tilting his head to look at him. He had fallen quiet in the taxi ride, his eyebrows drawing together in concentration and thought, and now he sat on the edge of his squeaking bed, hands in his lap, eyes far off.

He lifted his head. "Oh. It's... nothing," he said unconvincingly, and Crowley snorted.

"Aye, I'm sure it is." Crowley peeled himself off the bed with serpentine grace, stalking over to the angel. "Spill it."

Aziraphale let out a sigh, his hands running down his thighs and his eyes flitting around to avoid Crowley's. "I just feel that... something here is wrong," he told him, frowning. Crowley cocked his head to the side.

"Well, we are trying to follow an antichrist. You might be getting an... antichrist-y vibe."

Aziraphale shook his head immediately. "No, no, no," he said, standing up. To add to the point, he stepped over to the window and drew the curtains, instead flicking the light on. It buzzed, flickered uncertainly, and then illuminated the room in a dull yellow light. "It's not the antichrist. It's something different. Can't you feel it?"

Truthfully, Crowley had felt it too, the moment the plane had touched down, felt it get stronger as the taxi drove them into Lebanon. "What kind of thing are you feeling?" He asked, for he knew that what he felt was not something  _good._ Something intimidating, a potential threat to him. It had him on edge, made him want to demand a nice little spray bottle of holy water in case Hell had decided to follow him. (He knew it was risky; so, so risky to have stayed in Aziraphale's company for this long.) 

Aziraphale pondered the answer to the question, lips pursed together, tongue running along his teeth before, finally, he said; "something almost safe. Potential danger, but not something malicious."

Crowley threw his hands up. "Probably a damn angel, then," he groaned. Upon Aziraphale's raised eyebrow he continued. "Opposite for me, buddy. A lovely little white-wing probably ready to claw my throat out." He slid his hands into his pockets. "Let's just go find the kid, huh?" He eyed their bags for a moment before simply using his foot to kick them underneath the beds. He looked expectantly at Aziraphale.

"Right. We probably shouldn't dally," he agreed with a bob of his head. He opened the door, holding it so Crowley could stroll out, and then followed him out onto the streets. It was around eight in the evening, the streets not overly busy, and Crowley was glad for that. The simple knowledge that there was (most likely) another angel around was not good news to himself or to Aziraphale, whether or not they were aware of Heaven's suspicions on Aziraphale and Hell's on Crowley. Then again, concerning Crowley, they simply wouldn't care; he was a demon. There wasn't much they could do unless they decided to show themselves, however, and only if Aziraphale actually recognised them, so Crowley swallowed it down, hummed a line of  _Hammer To Fall._

"Do we have enough time for tea?" Aziraphale suddenly blurted, looking a little sheepish. Crowley offered him a look, but shrugged nonetheless.

"I don't see why not," he responded, a tad jokingly - he _did_ see why not, and it started with a capital  _A_ and ended with the destruction of the world - but what harm would a quick cuppa do? He let Aziraphale guide the way down the streets until he came upon a little food truck in a park, from which he ordered a hot cocoa for himself, along with a portion of fries, and Crowley got a coffee. With their suitable dinner in their hands, they took a seat on a bench nearby a little pond, watching ducks float on the surface. 

"I haven't been to America in quite some time," Aziraphale hummed, hands hugging his tea and breathing it in, steam rising from the rippling surface. He let out a content sigh and Crowley simply threw one arm over the back of the bench, draped on the bench, long legs stretched out. He took a tentative sip of his coffee and Aziraphale continued. "I've quite missed it, honestly. Humans change so much in such little time."

"That, I can agree with."

Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow. "You didn't agree with the first part? When was the last time you were here?"

Crowley blew out a breath. When his sunglasses slid down his nose, he shoved them up with the tip of his left middle finger. "Eighteen-something-or-other," he shrugged. "Eighteen-sixty-five, to be exact. It's... certainly changed. And London is my home, Angel." His eyes rolled around the place, taking it in, the lack of horse-drawn carriages, top hats, ankle-length skirts and the bad smell. He missed the theatres, perhaps. But humans changed so swiftly, like a blink of an eye, it was almost impressive. 

"Humans are interesting creatures," Arizaphale commented fondly, eyes drifting to a mother and her daughter wandering the pond, throwing seeds for the ducks out across the water. Crowley hummed in agreement, tipping his head down and then returning his attention to his coffee. He hardly even liked coffee. Maybe humans had rubbed off on him too much, reflexes telling him to get a coffee for he was jet lagged, and a coffee should help. "But I suppose I do quite prefer London. I do miss my bookshop."

"You virtually brought half of it with you in your bag," snorted Crowley, and Aziraphale's lips twitched slightly upwards. "I just hope my plants don't die." His own lips turned down in a sneer. He knew they probably wouldn't, should they avert this whole Armageddon business and return home very much alive, but perhaps he might need to end up making an example of another poor potted succulent that refused to grow perfectly. How hard was it to simply have some nice greenery?

"We shouldn't be here too long," said Aziraphale, hope lighting up his words. Crowley grunted in response. Perhaps it was part of the whole demon-schtick, or perhaps he was simply a pessimistic being by nature, but he simply couldn't share his friend's great optimism. He took another sip of his bitter coffee, and Aziraphale munched on some fries. He held one out to Crowley and he took it, dropping it onto his tongue and almost swallowing it whole.

"Hopefully. As long as we get there before the hellhound, we should be fine."

"And what do we do with the hellhound?"

Crowley inwardly groaned at that. Hellhounds were not nice beasts, and he highly doubted they were going to send Satan's son a runt. "He'll be dealt with if the kid is," he responded instead, shrugging casually. He shifted on the uncomfortable bench, tailbone complaining, demanding a new position that wasn't so harsh on it, and he doubled over to set his coffee on the floor by his feet. 

"I suppose so. Chip?" He held two out to Crowley again, who reached out to pluck them from his grasp, dropping them into his mouth and swallowing. Then he began to talk again, slipping into his chatty and happy self. He spoke about places he'd like to visit again in America, after this was all cleared up; a restaurant in Georgia, the Grand Canyon, Washington D.C. and he said he'd like to go back up to Canada, for he hadn't been there in centuries. He rambled on, suddenly hit with a case of adventurer's disease, and Crowley almost felt bad that Armageddon was on its way - almost bad simply for the fact that he was trying to remain somewhat optimistic. 

It was during this little ramble about Vancouver and Montreal that three people wandered past. Two men, one of which had a voice that broke the silence like a gunshot; sharp and unashamed. The tallest man wore a soft smile and warm eyes, his hair tucked back behind his ears and his long legs eating up the ground in long strides that had the shortest one hurrying to keep up. Speaking of said shortest one, the one that looked like a tax accountant with a tan trench coat (and he had thought Aziraphale was always dressed up) he was staring right at Crowley, cold, calculating eyes burning into him as they passed. His gait slowed down, causing the other two to slow down in confusing and question him, and then in turn to look at Crowley and Aziraphale.

"Well," Crowley said, clapping his hands onto his thighs and standing up. "I think we should leave now, Angel," he urged, nudging him in the midst of his eating. Aziraphale glanced up in confusion and Crowley urged him on. "I think we have company. Get up." Aziraphale's eyes flicked to the slow trio over Crowley's shoulder and then he nodded, hurrying up to his feet and then down the path. At the very least, the trio didn't make to follow them. The tax account simply continued to stare at Crowley, curious and wary. 

"Recognise 'em?" He asked, and Aziraphale risked a brief glance back at them before shaking his head. They'd started walking away again, not looking back, though the man with the loud voice had stopped bellowing, stopped laughing, and they wore smiles no longer.

"No," he said, shaking his head with a frown. "I don't. But they didn't come at us, so perhaps they don't know."

"Don't know about Armageddon?" Crowley asked incredulously. "Everyone and their aunt is talking about Armageddon!" He threw his hands down by his sides and sighed. "Whatever. Let's just... avoid them."

Aziraphale did not hesitate to agree with him, throwing away his fries and his tea in a nearby trashcan, and they continued down the streets that grew rapidly darker, streetlamps flickering and buzzing overhead, and Crowley's mind jumped over everything that was going on. Armageddon, the antichrist, Hell's disruption and suspicions on Crowley, the trio around. If luck was on their side, they would get to the antichrist before the hellhound was to be released, and they'd take care of it all. Heaven and Hell would not be a problem and Aziraphale would return to his bookshop in London, and Crowley to his Bentley outside his flat, and they'd meet up for lunch again. Perhaps Crowley would invite him back to his flat and receive a scolding for the way his plants trembled when Crowley stepped into the building. Hell, stepped foot back into England. Crowley would take credit for the next big human disaster and he'd remain one of the highest ranked demons downstairs, and he'd be left alone to do whatever he pleased and to get drunk on wine at his angel's bookshop.

"They are not," said Aziraphale with the click of his tongue, and Crowley placed his hands upon his hips.

"Well, let's say that luck has decided to give us a break, here, and they don't know about Armageddon," he began, fixing his glasses on his nose, "then what will they say when they see dear old Aziraphale kicking it with a demon?" He pouted his lips out childishly and Aziraphale rung his hands in front of him. He pulled a napkin from his suit pocket, dabbing around his mouth with it before folding it and replacing it inside his pocket once more.

"I'll think of something," he simply stated, lifting his head up an inch. "And it'll be fine."

Crowley simply hummed dubiously, turning his head forwards. "Aye, we'll see." He shook his head more so to himself. Now was no time to go off on some stressed rant, however. They had no time for nuisance like that, not when an eleven year old was about to turn them all to ash and dust.

"My dear, we'll figure this out," enthused Aziraphale, "whether or not we have to... shake some people off our tail." He looked so sure of himself, too. So hopeful and holding so much optimism that only an angel was able to conjure up. It was insanely irritating, grating on his pessimistic nerves, but Crowley wasn't about to go out of his way to dampen the angel's hopes. At least one of them had some. 

Crowley opened his mouth to respond, maybe make a snarky comment, a witty joke, or simply agree with his angel, but something made him stop. Physically stop, as well. He paused on the spot, body rigid, and Aziraphale carried on a few steps before turning, eyebrow raised.

"What's wrong, Crowley?" He asked, eyes flicking around like Crowley's. Soon, his eyes went down to his feet and the thin, almost invisible line of salt right by his toes. His eyebrows drew together and he lifted his head back to Aziraphale, who stepped forwards in an attempt to kick away the salt for Crowley. It was too conveniently placed, however, right at the entrance to the narrow street they were about to walk down, and Crowley knew that.

So much for shaking people off their tail, he thought, and the trio from earlier made themselves known. Two of them approached from behind Crowley, one - the one in the trench coat - approached from behind Aziraphale. 

"What is the meaning of this?" The angel asked, stepping back so he could keep his eyes on all of them. He looked at Crowley,  _are you okay?_ conveyed in his eyes as if they had begun to exorcise Crowley. Fondly, he rolled his eyes at his concern, instead taking a step aside to look at all threw of them. The tall man held a bottle of water threateningly in his hand (and if Crowley cringed, well, could you blame him?) while the other brandished a jagged knife held tight in his hand. The other man, the one that stared Crowley down as if he saw right down to his damned soul - and perhaps he did - brandished a sleek sword that sang like Heaven. 

"You're an angel," stated the odd man, eyes on Aziraphale, who looked taken aback. Crowley held back the need to roll his eyes again; it was fairly obvious by now that these men knew who - or, it seemed simply, _what_ \- they were. 

Aziraphale shifted on the spot, glancing around. "Why, yes, I am. And you are?" He asked, looking among them all. "I'm afraid I don't recognise you. And I'm afraid to say that this is all... a little unnecessary, don't you think?" He mused, waving his hands in an open, relaxed gesture. 

"Didn't think I'd see the day when demons and angels began working together," the loud-mouth from earlier commented, jabbing his knife in Crowley's direction. Crowley gaped, placing a hand over his chest as if he was hurt.

"Well, that was uncalled for!" He exclaimed. "You have no proof that I'm at all a demon! I think you're all high!" He offered a relaxed grin, though he supposed that Aziraphale had just outed them with no attempt to be subtle. He frowned at the angel who simply shrugged helplessly. 

"I can see it," said the odd man - the other angel, he assumed. 

"Then I hope you wouldn't mind if we checked," said the tall man, popping the cap off the little bottle of holy water. Crowley cringed away - he had seen what that thing did to demons, and he was not about to allow a single drop of that on him. 

"That's still not necessary!" Squawked Aziraphale, stepping between them and placing one hand on Crowley's chest, the other ahead of himself. "If you'd just let us be on our way, I'd very much appreciate that."

"You're an angel, yet you're working with Crawley." 

"Actually," interrupted the demon, turning on the other angel, "it's Crowley. Had a little change, you know; keeping up with the times and whatnot." He waved a hand vaguely, made a vague sound as if he was blowing a raspberry. "Plus, Crawley - it's so..." he pulled a face, scrunching his face up. "Dirty. Yeah; dirty. Like a lowlife demon; I'd like to imagine I'm a bit better than that. Actually, actually; where have you been? I've not been Crawley for a while." He leaned forwards, grinning at the angel. _Everyone_ knew him by Crowley now. 

That question seemed to irk the angel, for he shifted on the spot and glanced to the other men. "I've been on Earth," he simply answered, and Crowley shrugged. Fair enough, he supposed; so had he and Aziraphale been for quite some time. 

"Well, this has been splendid!" He clapped his hands together. "But we better run now; doing demonly deeds, I'm afraid. Unless you're here to kill us, which, in that case, I must say is quite unfortunate, and I really can't allow that. Tight schedule and all." He grinned innocently, waving his hands, and then they stepped closer. That lid still wasn't on that damn holy water, and it was so full Crowley feared the man might trip over his own long legs and spill some onto him. Plus, that knife was obviously supposed to be a threat - probably more than a threat than any ordinary human knife. Crowley had never seen it before, however.

"What business would an angel have with a demon?" Asked the angel, and Crowley groaned, thoroughly frustrated.

"And who are you lot?" He asked. "You've come here, broken up our lovely little evening and threatened us, and I don't even know your name yet."

"Castiel," said the angel, and oh, that was an old name. Perhaps as old as when Crowley had still been an angel, and that had been ages ago. 

"Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester," said the loud-mouth, then he pointed at the tall man, introducing him as Sam.

"Pleasure to meet you," Crowley said. "Still, I'm afraid we've got to go, as nice as this had been." 

If they weren't about to attack them, then he was more than happy to simply slip by with no commotion. Castiel was an old name, and judging by Aziraphale's face, it held a tale to it. One of the many (many, _many_ ) downsides to being a demon was he no longer got all the angelic gossip, and boy did they used to have a lot of it. Maybe this Castiel was a troublemaker, on the run from Heaven as well. The Winchester's, well, they weren't familiar. He felt like they'd probably be disappointed if he voiced that though. 

Dean stepped forwards, holding the knife up just enough to stop Crowley and Aziraphale from leaving, and Crowley sighed. "You see, we've been tracking down some disturbances," he said. "And then all of a sudden an angel and a demon show up right where we are."

"Disturbances?" Echoed Aziraphale, and he shared a look with Crowley. The blasted antichrist was already at it, it seemed; he probably didn't even know what he was doing or that he was doing anything in the first place. Who knew how much trouble that could cause, depending on the kid. 

"Oh, interesting," cooed Crowley. "You should look into that. Could be quite fun, you know. Or, actually, you could leave it perfectly alone and go back home; that could be even more fun." He quirked an eyebrow, slid to the side and stumbled to a halt in front of the salt line that had yet to be destroyed. Damned humans were always too smart for their own good, and he glared down at the little grains by his toes. 

"You know about this?" Asked Sam, stepping between him and Dean. The negotiator, Crowley assumed, though he wondered if the fact he held the holy water was a factor in that. Crowley looked back to Aziraphale, pursing his lips to say;  _should we?_

Aziraphale made a face to say; _well, they might help us, or they might know something we don't._

An exhale from Crowley meant;  _really? You think so?_

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, lips twitching upwards slightly.  _They could have hurt us already._

Crowley grimaced and shuffled on the spot. It was a fair point, but still. The holy water was  _right there._ And Crowley knew that Aziraphale had glanced uncomfortably at the blade held by Castiel. If it had just been the two humans themselves it would have been much easier to deal with; a flash of his serpent head, a hiss of his tongue and they would have been running like everyone else did. But the angel being thrown into the mix complicated things; he could take them out with ease, or he could report to Heaven and bring more angels down on them, or he could potentially bring more consequences onto Aziraphale's shoulders. 

"Well... maybe somethings," said Crowley, rolling his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. 

"You must understand where we're coming from," Sam said, his voice soft. "You don't see this kind of thing, and it's pretty coincidental - you're timing, that is. But if this isn't you, I'd appreciate if you told us why you're here, then, or if you know anything about this; we'd appreciate it."

Aziraphale was virtually bursting with the need to reassure the man, to keep things calm and potentially cooperate. Crowley turned on his heel, spinning for a moment and waving his hand as if giving the angel permission that he didn't need.

"I can assure you, none of this is our doing," he said, waving his hands in a dismissive gesture. "We're... actually here because of it. We're simply trying to fix this," he told them, and then he set a hand on Crowley's shoulder. "And he is not here to... make mischief, and whatnot." He offered a sheepish smile and Crowley's own fang-showing grin did nothing to back up what he said. 

Crowley held out a pinkie. "Promise. Cross my heart and hope to... not die?" He shrugged helplessly, and when no one accepted his pinkie he dropped his hand down to his side. However, he was relieved to watch Sam fumble to put the lid on the holy water. A drop of it splattered onto the ground beneath his feet and Crowley jumped back with a warning hiss at Sam, who smiled apologetically. 

"Then I think we should take this conversation elsewhere," said Sam, and Dean raised an eyebrow.

"So we're trusting them now?" He snorted. Aziraphale sidled up to Crowley's side, smiling innocently at Dean. 

"We're willing to talk with you," the angel said, gaze bouncing around the trio. "In a nice, civil conversation. We can go get tea."

"We are?" Echoed Crowley, eyebrows crawling up incredulously. 

"Yes, Crowley. We are." Aziraphale gave him a look to say;  _this is an opportunity._

"I think that'd be great," said Sam, looking at Castiel and Dean. "Don't you?" Dean still looked wary, and Castiel looked none too happy to be near Crowley, but they nodded nonetheless. With that, they turned to the street they had been about to walk down, Sam saying he knew of a place they could go to. He also scuffed his foot along the line of salt, and Crowley and Aziraphale fell into the back, letting them lead the way. Crowley didn't trust them; not one bit. But he trusted Aziraphale, and the fact that they hadn't actually thrown any holy water on him or threatened to drag Aziraphale upstairs to have a lovely scolding from Gabriel. 

Crowley stuffed his hands into his pockets, eying the trio from over his sunglasses. Nonetheless, he followed them, and Aziraphale was quiet by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this! If you did, feel free to leave a kudos or a comment; I greatly appreciate it! I'd love any feedback and constructive criticism, especially considering this is my first Good Omens fic. Thank you all!


	2. Burn and Rave at the Close of Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time Crowley calls Aziraphale 'angel' Michael Sheen nods in approval. Can't wait to make Crowley pine for another 6 millennia whoo; are they established dating, or just taking pining to the extreme? No one knows, but it's all very, very homosexual.

The trio brought them back to the now-empty pond where they all stood at the edge. Aziraphale was busying himself by watching the ducks and Crowley was hovering over his shoulder like a shadow, serpentine eyes on the trio. Although they seemed relaxed Crowley could easily tell that, should the demon even hint at being a threat, they had reflexes fast enough to drown him in holy water in the blink of an eye. The angel had tucked his blade back into the sleeve of his trench coat - and Crowley simply believed that that couldn't be comfortable at all - and he stood a foot back. Although his eyes were, too, on the ducks in the pond, Crowley wondered if he was actually watching them.

Crowley wanted to leave. He wanted to go back to his dark flat in London, caress the wheel of his beautiful Bentley and apologise for leaving her behind like he had - and, should there be a single scratch on her from a reckless driver, he'd swear vengeance for her. He wanted to not have to deal with Heaven and Hell, or this whole Armageddon nonsense, and be free to do as he pleased. 

He forced himself to focus on the task at hand, however. "Right, then," he said. He shoved his hands into his back pockets, arching his back and leaning his hips forwards. "If we're gonna chat, I'd love to get this done with." Aziraphale turned away from the ducks, offering the trio a sheepish smile. 

"Yes, I think it would be best if we got on with this," his angel agreed. His hands clasped in front of himself, his foot scuffing against the ground, and Crowley simply continued to hover over his shoulder, his face a stony plate as he regarded the trio.

"Why are you two working together?" Asked Castiel as if he couldn't stop the words from tumbling out of his lips, for Dean also shot him a curious look. It seemed like the angel was simply dying to understand how Aziraphale would ever stoop so low as to work with a demon - with  _Crawley._ Part of him was tempted to put on a little show; entertain them by acting suspicious as if he was plotting their betrayal. He supposed Aziraphale wouldn't much like that, however, so he bit his tongue. 

"We... agree on what needs to be done," said Aziraphale, sparing the demon a glance. At the same time, Crowley placed a hand upon his left shoulder and said; "we're  _friends._ "

At the very least that's what Crowley would like to imagine 6000 years of companionship could be translated into layman's terms as. Dean, however, seemed to almost be amused by this, eying Crowley. 

"It's not the weirdest duo we've seen," Sam told him with a look, and Crowley just wondered what their strangest duo they'd seen was. Not many creatures seemed to stray from their own kind in London. Or at least not that Crowley had noticed, anyway. Perhaps America was simply different, but other than himself and Aziraphale, Crowley couldn't imagine a single species of creature that would intermingle with another. A demon and a witch? Laughable. Witches were too angsty for Crowley to deal with, and too bad for an angel. A vampire with anything else? Nonsense. They liked to act like Victorian royalty, and he was fairly sure they were all delusional. Werewolves; well, Crowley had had enough of hounds. Anything other than Aziraphale? Simple, utter nonsense. 

"What are you planning?" Castiel inquired, his head tipping to the side like an inquisitive puppy. The man looked rugged, his hair slightly messy, tie thin and crooked, his suit a little too big on him. Although he looked very much human, he managed to somehow look very much  _not_ as well. An otherworldly look behind his eyes, behaviour a little too odd. Perhaps he hadn't been on Earth as long as he had implied.

"Me? Planning something?" Crowley scoffed, shaking his head. " _Never_. Well, I was planning on cracking open that bottle of whiskey, actually, before you put an end to my good night." He frowned dramatically, rose a hand to fix his sunglasses while his eyes turned up to the rolling clouds overhead, thick and grey and dark, unpromising. "Oh, stop looking at me like that; you're looking like I'm about to murder a puppy!" He placed his hands atop his hips, pushing out against his tight jeans, and he leaned forwards to scrutinise the angel. "I thought angels were supposed to be non-discriminatory. I'm feeling very discriminated against."

Dean snorted and glanced aside. "Funny," he commented, tipping his head in Crowley's direction. Then he glanced at the angel, stepped closer to him, and, placing a hand onto his shoulder, he leaned close and whispered something about letting him do the talking. Castiel pressed his lips together, glanced at Crowley - Crowley grinned - and then sighed, but he took a step back. He looked, Crowley thought, a little constipated. "Assuming you aren't the average run-of-the-mill demon, then. Why are you two here together?" He asked, quirking an eyebrow up, and Crowley shrugged his head to Aziraphale. His angel took a step forwards, fingers fiddling with the hem of his waistcoat. 

"Well, we're... tracking down -" he glanced back at Crowley, as if seeking out his permission to admit their reason of being there. Crowley shrugged nonchalantly, bobbing his head side to side. "We're seeking out the antichrist." 

Silence fell upon them, then, the curious trio regarding them with varying expressions. Sam looked confused, his thick eyebrows drawn together, and Castiel looked expressionless but conflicted, watching his feet with interest. Dean looked dubious, as if he didn't believe them. Crowley didn't blame him. 

"The antichrist?" He echoed, eyes flicking between Sam and Castiel before settling on the angel, as if trying to get him to confirm or deny. Castiel's hands found home in his coat pockets, his lips staying in a straight line.

"I had heard talk of it," he nodded. "Years ago. The catalyst for the Great War between Heaven and Hell." His eyes flicked Heavenwards, a flash of longing and sadness glinting in his eyes before he turned back to face them, smoothing his face out. 

"Yes, yes," said Aziraphale. "Well, we were thinking that by also averting Armageddon; well, there would also be no need for such a horrific war!" He enthused, lips spreading his face in an optimistic smile, his hands clapping together twice before he interlaced his fingers together. Castiel looked intrigued, thoughtful, mulling the idea over in his mind.

"They wouldn't be happy about that," he finally commented, tipping his head to the side. When Aziraphale glanced back to Crowley, the demon could simply pull his lips from his teeth in a grimace. He knew Heaven - and Hell - would not be happy at the idea of averting the Great War. Both sides were equally as eager for it to happen so they could come out victorious and rule the remnants of the world (under the antichrist's rule, of course.) Aziraphale sighed, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly.

"No, maybe not. But maybe by then they would come to understand that the war is unnecessary!" 

Again, Crowley grimaced. Maybe the angels might be alright with avoiding a war, but trying to get thousands of demons to stand down? Not as easy. Not at all. Demons were bloodthirsty, and since the moment Crowley had had the antichrist shoved into his hands in a basket they had already been preparing for the war yet to come, chanting and eager like mindless mutts. Not that Crowley didn't understand; unfortunately, he did. He hadn't killed in many millenia, but he had once. After falling right into Hell, right into a boiling, endless pool of sulphur, after suffering what felt like an eternity at torturer's hands to thoroughly, intimately strip him of any traces of his holiness and divinity. After all of that, he had fallen into that same mindless rage that devoured most demons. Even to this day, he could hardly recall what he had done for half a century. Things that brought the metallic scent of blood straight to his head, its coppery taste deep in his throat, ears ringing from screams and his clothes smelling like fire and ash. He wasn't sure if he was grateful for the fact that he couldn't explicitly remember. He thought that perhaps he had gotten himself into a fight with an angel or something else that was rather strong, for the fight left him too weak to feed his bloodlust. The break from violence had let his sanity bleed back into him, and he hadn't killed since. A part of him feared a time he might kill again and fall back into that rush of pleasant violence. 

He wondered if Aziraphale had ever met him like that. He wondered what kind of monster he might have seen. 

Crowley shook those thoughts off with a small shake of his head and a huff of breath, scuffing his foot along the floor to kick a loose stone into the pond. He turned to face it, tuning the trio and Aziraphale out and instead focusing on the ducks at the opposite end. The ducks looked at him like deer caught in headlights, and Aziraphale reached up, pulled his glasses down his nose slightly to eye them. Then he grinned, fangs and all, and the ducks squawked in fear, little legs paddling through the water to carry themselves out of the pond and disappearing into the shrubs. Crowley pushed the glasses back up his nose and spun on his heel to face the trio. None other than Aziraphale had glanced back at him, and Crowley slid back into the conversation.

"So, you were given the antichrist, and you just handed it off?" Said Dean, eyebrows raised at Crowley. "You had to wait until he was warming up for the end of the world to do something?"

Crowley folded his arms over his chest, scoffing. "Oh, yeah," he mused. "You're right. Should've just wandered back Downstairs and handed the baby back and been all;  _sorry Beelzebub. Change of plans; I'm not really feeling the whole Armageddon thing, you know? Hope that's okay, can we just... leave it?_ " He scoffed, shaking his head incredulously. "Yeah, you go down there and tell them that, then we'll talk about options."

Dean eyed him for a few long moments as if he was both irritated and amused. "Whatever," he dismissed. "Okay, well, what was that whole; _catalyst for the Great War_ thing? Armageddon?" His eyes flicked between the supernatural beings in question, and all three of them shuffled uncomfortably, throats expelling awkward coughs. 

"The Great War," offered Castiel, "is something that has been prophesised for... millennia. We were never sure exactly when it would occur, but it would be triggered by the antichrist receiving its full powers and working with the four horsemen of the apocalypse to... turn Earth into a battlefield. Angels and demons would come to war against one another, and whoever would come victorious would reshape the world. For obvious reasons, I only ever heard of the possibilities that would occur should angels win." His eyes flicked to Crowley who scrunched his face up and gestured vaguely.

"Hell's pretty cramped," he shrugged. "They'd love to get the leg room. Turn Australia into a hellhound kennel." 

They grimaced at that, uncomfortable at the idea of Earth being overrun by demons. Crowley couldn't blame them, but in the same breath he couldn't confirm the angels would do much better. At least demons, ironically, were honest about what they would do should they run the world. Angels were sly things, interested individually in themselves and nothing else. Once, they might not have been, but whether or not they always had been selfish or not wasn't that important as of the present.

"Ah," said Dean, sharing a look with his brother. "Where, pray tell, is the antichrist?"

Again, Aziraphale and Crowley looked to one another, grimacing. 

"Well, we're on the way to him," said Crowley, placing his hands atop his hips. "So you lot can just... skedaddle home. We've got this all handled."  He nodded his head confidently, rocking his weight side to side. 

"That doesn't sound very convincing," Dean scoffed, and Crowley glared at him. 

" _You_ don't sound very convincing."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Nor do you." 

Crowley scuffed his foot over the floor and pouted childishly when Sam and Aziraphale cleared their throats to interrupt their childish spat. With another retort on his lips, Crowley bit it back and stepped to Aziraphale's side, floating over like a moth attracted to light. 

"I'm going to assume you don't know where the antichrist is," Sam commented, unamused, and Crowley grinned innocently.

"He's a slippery bugger. Grown up so fast." He wiped a mock tear from beneath his rimmed glasses, pretending to flick a drop off his finger before he stuffed his hands back into his front pockets. "Look, how hard is it to find Satan's son?"

"You - you mentioned, er, _disturbances_ ," perked up Aziraphale. His hands clasped together against his chest and his eyes roamed over everyone. "What have you heard?" He asked. 

"It's quite... spectacular, honestly," said Sam, seeming utterly fascinated by whatever they had heard about. "It's just little things right now. Every farm in the state that treated its animal cruelly has shut down. Pollution levels are going down. It seems like every gun in the country is jammed and not working."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Well, that doesn't seem very... antichrist-y," he mused, looking at Aziraphale.

"No... it doesn't," his angel agreed, his eyebrows knitting together. His pointer finger tapped against his pursed lips, his eyes on the floor between his feet. "I don't think the incident's are related to the antichrist. No, they can't be. Has anything bad been happening?" 

Sam shook his head. "Nothing out of the usual. Just... just good things." His broad shoulders bobbed in a helpless shrug. 

"That's a good thing," Aziraphale said, lips curling upwards. "That's good! That means he's yet to realise his powers. Or perhaps he is doing this; perhaps he's simply using his powers for good!" 

At that, Crowley couldn't help but let out a bitter snort. "Oh, sure. And tomorrow I'll be in church. Oh, hear me, dear Almighty, I have oodles of faith." He clasped his hands together in a prayer position, looking up at the sky and pouting at the stars overhead. Part of him wondered if a bolt of lightning would crack through the grounds to devour him for daring to say Their name, pushing Their name off his demonic tongue. Nothing happened, however. He stayed wholly intact rather than a pile of smouldering ash on a charred floor. He returned to the conversation, hands falling limp by his side, his face deadpanning. "There's a better chance of me surviving a bath of holy water than the antichrist being  _good._ "

Aziraphale deflated ever so slightly, eyes flicking aside, straying back to the pond and the lack of ducks. That too seemed to make him deflate further and Crowley almost felt a little guilty for scaring them off. 

"How do you know about the antichrist?" Asked Sam. His eyes were warm with curiosity and friendliness, as if he hadn't been holding a bottle of holy water in front of Crowley but twenty minutes earlier. He seemed like the gentler one of the trio, the strategist, even if it had only been the demon he was talking to and not also an angel who was inherently good. 

Aziraphale turned to Crowley for a moment. "Well, it has always been prophesised, of course," he said. "And, well, Crowley here told me when it started."

Sam's eyes turned to the demon. Said demon had half-tuned out the conversation once more, more interested in the spider currently crawling nearby his shoes on the grass. "And how do you know about it? Aziraphale explained how you were given it as a - a baby, but what then? Shouldn't you know where it is?"

Crowley tipped his head, hissing out a breath between his teeth. "Well, because I'm the big baddy downstairs, I was tasked with taking the kid," he said, as if boasting about some achievement. "I took the kid to some nunnery and handed it over. They were supposed to swap the kid out and put him in some dumb family. Turns out everyone woman on earth decided to give birth and crash in that nunnery, however, and some moved, the nunsss were fucking ssstupid, and no. No, we do not know where the antichrissst isss." He waved his hands in an empty gesture, grin bitter and sharp. His tongue, which had morphed into the thin, forked tongue of a snake in his stress and rant, dashed out along his teeth in a stressed, hissed out sigh. Aziraphale took it in his stride, not blinking, although Sam and Dean's eyebrows furrowed and Castiel frowned in distaste. Crowley was ready to slap that constipated-slash-quizzical look off his face.

"I didn't know demons were into body modification," Dean commented sarcastically, and Crowley rolled his eyes.

"He's the serpent," uttered Castiel. Dean gave him a look.

"I don't know if you've ever seen a snake, Cas. But he's not a snake," Dean stated, waving a hand vaguely at Crowley. Castiel looked a little exasperated for a moment as if he was frustrated at the human's lack of understanding. He shuffled on the spot, huffed a breath and pressed his lips together for a moment.

"Crawly -"

" _Crowley_."

"Was the demon sent in the form of a serpent to tempt Eve into eating the forbidden fruit," he explained, and Crowley rolled his eyes.

"Just expose me like that, why don't you?" He snorted, stuffing his hands into his pockets and kicking a stone into the pond. Sam and Dean looked between Castiel and Crowley, incredulous and dubious expressions on their faces; eyes narrowed, lips together, eyebrows furrowed or raised. 

"That was real?" Dean asked. "Not just some... bible mumbo jumbo?"

"Yes," stated Castiel. "It was."

"Oh, what a good time that was," Crowley mused, eyes fluttering closed. How fun that had been. He and Aziraphale had followed the first two humans for a while, watching their lives progress. And then there had been that day that Aziraphale had just strolled up to the two of them, thrusting his sword into Adam's hand  _'for warmth'_ and  _'safety'._

Times had been simpler then. All Crowley had had to do was get someone to eat an apple, and then wait for a while. He had used that time mostly to get used to his human form again; the whole smelling-through-his-nose thing rather than tongue thing, the legs and knees and arms situation, actually standing and walking, realising that colours were a thing in his human form (even if they were more muted nonetheless. The downsides of being a snake) and to realising that it was  _fucking cold._ Again, the joys of being a cold blooded reptile; the list was never ending. 

"So he is a snake. This just gets better," Dean snorted, and Crowley made a show of hissing at him, teeth bared. 

"I think we're a bit off topic," Aziraphale commented, clearing his throat and hopping back into the conversation. "Ah, yes, Crowley is that. I don't think that's all that important considering the antichrist and Armageddon right now, though."

"Unless you're allergic to snakes," Crowley mused. "Which, in that case, you can suck it up. Angel's right. One might think some monster hunters would be eager as all Hell to find the antichrist, rather than dallying and chatting about bible stories."

Sam ran his hands through his hair, pushing it out of his face and behind his ears. "Well, we are. Is there a way we can track him down?" He asked, turning to Castiel. 

"Not that I know of," the angel admitted, and his eyes flicking questioningly to Aziraphale and Crowley. 

"I wouldn't believe so."

"Highly doubt it. Perhaps a conveniently placed tower of hell-fire might end up making itself known."

The trio sighed and Crowley took a step to the side, looking around. The streets were all but abandoned now save for people making their way to and from pubs and little restaurants. The park was deserted, dimly lit by street lamps dotted around the trail through the park. An occasional beam of light lit up the park from a passing car, sending their shadows dancing across the ground. His sunglasses didn't help much in the poor light, but Crowley was nothing if not adaptive and used to the curtain of darkness the shades offered.

"We're working on it," he grunted out dismissively. He tucked his hands into his pockets, thumbs sticking out, and then he turned and staggered a few steps back. "Well, I think we're done here. Come on, Angel, let's go." He jerked his head back for Aziraphale to follow him and the angel hesitated, glancing between the trio and the demon.

"I thought we could work together," the angel offered hopefully, hands clasping together and his lips turned upwards in a friendly smile.

Surprisingly, all four of them - Sam, Dean, Castiel and Crowley - managed to blurt out;  _"What?"_

"Well, you lot will be doing the exact same as we will," he stated, "finding the antichrist. Stopping Armageddon. So are we. It would benefit everyone if we... helped one another out."

"He has got a point," Sam commented, looking among them all. Although Castiel looked conflicted, he bobbed his head in a nod.

"It would probably be faster and easier if we did work together," he murmured reluctantly. Crowley blinked owlishly at them all, and then he shook his head.

"No. Absolutely not. We have this handled ourselves, Angel," he declared, pursing his lips. They certainly did not need that kind of attention around them, not when a hoard of demons were already scrutinising Crowley harder than they had been before and, surely, Heaven on Aziraphale too. "Plus," he said, and he jabbed his finger at Castiel. "What kind of angel are you, huh? Playing spy or soldier?"

Castiel looked mildly confused, his eyebrows drawing together and his head tipping to the side. Crowley moved swiftly on, turning now to Aziraphale. "That is, most possibly, the dumbest idea I have ever heard, Angel. No offense. But seriously; we have this handled, alright? And joining forces with another angel and humans isn't, I don't know, the best idea ever considering we're on opposing sides of everything." He shrugged dramatically, his lips pouting and head pushing forwards slightly. 

Aziraphale was pouting at him, eyes round and sad and disappointed, and Crowley let out a groan hissed between his teeth. The damned angel had a serious case of puppy dog eyes that he just so loved to pull on Crowley every time they had a disagreement. 

"We're just going to keep running into one another," Aziraphale commented. "I believe it would be much smarter if we just... worked together, my dear."

"It makes sense," commented Sam, and Crowley glared at him. It went unseen from the dark shades of his glasses, but at least it made Crowley feel a little better if nothing else. "We have the same goal. We're willing to cooperate." Dean looked as if that was news to him. Castiel looked reluctant although he seemed to be able to get over it for the greater good. 

Crowley did not like it. He truly didn't. He couldn't trust these people, nor did he necessarily want to. Aziraphale smiled at him, teeth showing and eyebrows raising hopefully. Crowley expelled a full-body sigh, slouching and growling out; " _Fine!"_

"Where are you guys staying?" Sam asked. Aziraphale waved a hand to the streets behind him.

"We have a room in a motel at the moment. It's about a ten minute walk from here," said the angel. Satisfied, Sam nodded, and then he looked back to Castiel and Dean. 

"I think this concludes tonight," Crowley piped up. "We ought to talk to our retrospective partners and... have a nice wee gathering tomorrow, huh? Lay all our cards on the table, hmm?" He raised his eyebrows, spreading his hands out. Sam nodded in agreement, shortly followed by Dean and Aziraphale. 

"Here? Noon?" 

Already taking a few steps back, Crowley threw a thumbs up at them. "Sounds great! Happy doomsday, see ya tomorrow!" 

With that, he already began to stride away from them and back towards the streets. He heard Aziraphale say a goodbye and goodnight to them before scurrying after Crowley, his shoes tapping on the floor to hurry back to his side.

"I think that went rather well," he commented optimistically. His hands smoothed his waistcoat out and then reached up to fix his bowtie. 

"That's what you'd call that?" Crowley huffed out a laugh. "They went from ready to turn us to dust, to shaking hands. This is a dumb idea, Angel. A dumb idea. I don't like the lot of 'em."

Aziraphale hummed, high pitched and sceptical. "I think it's a good idea. And, well, we can't blame them for being defensive, can we? It's very understanding. I also don't believe Castiel is with Heaven, if you're concerned about him interfering with your company."

"Oh?" Said Crowley, sparing him a glance. "You think so?"

"I know so. There has... I've overhead some talk of Castiel the last few times I've been to Heaven. I don't think they are... on good terms, as you might say. Haven't been for a while, I believe."

Crowley hummed curiously. He turned right on the street and as they approached their motel room, he reached out to hold open the door, Aziraphale ducking under his arm to slide inside. "Well, I'll look forwards to him getting kicked out too, then," he retorted. Aziraphale startled at the comment, glaring at him. 

"Don't say that!" He scolded. "Heaven hasn't 'kicked anyone' out." 

Crowley simply let a cold smile spread across his lips. "Yeah, yeah. Well, don't leave me hanging, Angel. Why aren't they happy with him?" 

Aziraphale slid his suit jacket off, neatly folding it over the back of a chair. He wandered over to his bed and settled on the edge, letting his eyes roam around the motel room. It certainly wasn't nice, but Crowley didn't much care where they stayed for a night or two. 

The walls were an odd mustard colour, mottled in the corners with suspicious specks of dark green, and the round oak table was sticky and stained. The roof had that tacky popcorn texture to it and a gross water stain nearby the small bathroom. The carpet was a tacky purple and there were only two teabags offered. Crowley glared at the pitiful things, willing to bet they weren't even of good quality, but he boiled the kettle nonetheless. His hip dug into the counter as he turned around, leaning against it and folding his arms across his chest, fixing Aziraphale with a curious look. 

The angel huffed out a sigh and shrugged, glancing to the closed curtains. "I think the Winchesters have dragged him into more trouble than they anticipated," he stated. "And now he's chosen the Winchesters over Heaven."

"Can't blame him," muttered Crowley. The kettle dinged as the water boiled and Crowley turned, reaching up to pull two mugs down from the cupboard. He stared at the stains on the inside of each mug with a frown, and then he shook his head and set them down. He sauntered over to his bed, reached out and pulled his bag out from under it, and then he dipped his hand inside to pull out the bottle of whiskey he had purchased earlier. He held it up to Aziraphale with a raised eyebrow, although he knew the angel had a taste more so for champagne and wine. Nonetheless, he nodded his head. 

Crowley took the first honour; snapping the cap open and foregoing the glasses hidden in the back of the cupboard for fearing of them being just as unhygienic. His face screwed up and he held out the bottle to Aziraphale, who took it, eyed the label, and then took a tentative sip. 

"So, we've got a runaway angel, a demon, and an angel working with humans to halt Armageddon." Crowley took back the bottle and held it up in a mock-cheers. "Huh. Exciting."

Aziraphale snorted. "I still think it's a good idea to work with them, my dear. We might need the help in both finding the antichrist and dealing with him. It'll go easier with more help."

Crowley gave him a sceptical look. Swallowing back bitter liquor, he cleared his throat once and then leaned back against the bed frame. "Until they turn on us," he muttered distastefully. He swirled the bottle of whiskey and took another sip before Aziraphale gave him a pointed look and he handed it over. He stood off his bed, walking over and sitting on the back of Aziraphale's bed, crossing his legs. Aziraphale climbed further up the bed to sit comfortably on the creaky mattress, facing Crowley. 

"Don't think like that, Crowley," he tutted. His fingernails tapped on the glass bottle, his lips pursed in thought as he regarded it. Then he took a swig and balanced it between his hands and his crossed legs. Crowley shrugged helplessly, a sly smile on his face.

"I wouldn't be a demon if I didn't contemplate conflict at every waking moment, Angel," he purred. He leaned across the bed to snatch the bottle from his grasp and Aziraphale didn't fight him for it. He looked displeased with Crowley's response, though he must know Crowley better by now. "Look, we've got some important things to do, and we can't afford getting fucked over at the moment, can we? That'd suck, and we aren't lame." 

"I suppose so," the angel uttered with a sigh. "But I'd like to imagine that that isn't the case."

"Well, I'm certainly not  _hoping_ for them to betray us," Crowley snorted. "I'm just... a realist." He waved his hand vaguely, then reached up to take his glasses off, setting them aside and rubbing his tired eyes. His gaze rolled down to the bottle in his other hand and he sighed. "Should'a got wine," he muttered.

"After all of this we can go for lunch and get some wine. Italy?" Aziraphale offered, and Crowley mulled the thought over. He shrugged.

"Aye, why not?" 

With a vicious groan, the demon hauled himself from the bed. Despite the dramatic groan as if his body ached, he moved with a serpentine grace and elegance; sliding across the room to fiddle with the mini fridge in the corner. Unlike higher-end hotels, however, there was no offered bottles of cider or prosecco, and he returned to his claimed spot on Aziraphale's bed with a sigh. He slumped back into the bed, long legs crossing oddly over one another. The two slipped into a comfortable silence, broken by the tap of nails on glass and Crowley swallowing liquor on autopilot. At some point Aziraphale braved the tea mugs after giving it a thorough cleaning, and further into the night, he peeled the bottle out of Crowley's hands and set it aside. A blanket fell across his shoulders, his glasses set aside, his hair brushed out of his face. He might have even caught a;  _"goodnight, my dear."_

Warmth washed off the angel's presence from beside him, and Crowley's breaths turned to his familiar hiss-snort-hiss as he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a Scot myself, I'm personally insulted every time David Tennant has to lose his accent for a role. Can you imagine Crowley with a Scottish accent? Utterly sinful. Too powerful for our human ears to behold. 
> 
> Anywho, rant over. I just want David's accent and Crowley would have been great with it and it's taking everything in me not to make him speak with a Scots accent.
> 
> If you liked this part, feel free to leave a kudos or a comment; I greatly appreciate it!  
> You can find me on Tumblr @veteranklaus.


	3. Wise Men at Their End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since snakes are cold blooded, I have an excuse to write Crowley as a heat-hog.

When Crowley awoke, he realised his face was buried in something soft. He snorted, breath stuttering in his throat, his nose twitching. Either the heating hadn't turned on or it simply didn't work in this shitty motel, but the room was cold; unpleasantly cold for his already cold blood. However, whatever he was half draped over, simply exuded heat. His tongue dashed out of his mouth, expelling with it a little  _hisssss,_ and he huddled himself closer to the bundle on the bed. His hands drifted over it before fisting into the waistcoat...  _waistcoat._

"Good morning, Crowley." 

Crowley tensed, taking in the current position he was in. Aziraphale was on the bed next to him, awake. Crowley had fallen asleep on Aziraphale's bed; either on Aziraphale or he'd crawled over in his sleep. His face was buried in his side and he had simply pressed himself against him as close as he physically could, leeching off his body heat. Crowley pulled his hands back to his own chest and he sat up, playing nonchalant. Sliding off the edge of the bed and onto his feet, Crowley nodded. "Hmm, yup, morning," he grumbled. He found his sunglasses folded neatly on the bedside table and he slid them back up his nose. He made his way over to the pitiful excuse for a kitchen in the motel room, eyed the single remaining teabag, then he threw it over his shoulder with a growl. Why was it so hard to get some  _tea?_

"The tea wasn't the best," Aziraphale commented from behind him, and he finally turned to brave him. Aziraphale was sitting up in his bed now that Crowley was no longer clinging to him. He had smoothed out his clothes and his hair, and then he stood up off the mattress and gravitated towards Crowley. He frowned, glancing above his head, and then he reached out. "Your hair's a mess," he stated, but then his lips curled up slightly in amusement. Crowley glared at him. He took a step back, hips hitting the counter behind him, and he just managed to dodge Aziraphale's hands. 

"It's natural," he said, and Aziraphale reached out again. When Crowley went to smack his hands away the angel gave him a warning look, and Crowley was subjected to his hands flattening his hair down, sorting it back into its usual style rather than they way it stuck up and out. Finally satisfied, the angel stepped back, a smile on his lips. Crowley simply gave him a look and folded his arms across his chest childishly. 

"Well, what are we still doing in here if they have shit tea?" He inquired, crossing the room towards the door. Aziraphale scurried after him, agreeing whole heartedly. 

The heavy clouds from last night hadn't left; they hung in the sky, large and dark, spitting torrents of rain down upon them. Their shoes kicked up puddles on the pavement, dampened the bottom of his trousers, and when Aziraphale held the café door open for Crowley, he didn't hesitate to duck under his arm and into the warmth of the place. There were only a couple of other people sitting inside, and ordering tea for the both of them to go didn't take long. Crowley hugged his hands around the steaming tea, letting it fog up his glasses and letting the heat seep right through to his bones that he was sure were chattering beneath his skin.

"'sss fucking cold," he grumbled, glaring at nothing in particular. "Why couldn't we have gone to Egypt again? Or Rome?"

"It's but a bit of rain," commented Aziraphale. "It's refreshing."

"Shut up."

Over his cup of tea, Aziraphale pouted at him. Crowley simply rolled his eyes at him and returned his focus to his tea. He had been craving a simple, nice cuppa since they had left London and although this wasn't as good as he could have made it back at his flat, it would simply have to do. Aziraphale sat at the opposite end of the table, one leg crossed over the other, one hand on his own cup of tea and the other picking at a freshly baked croissant that sat on a little blue plate in front of him. 

"Are you sure you don't want some?" He asked, offering up a small bit of it, and Crowley waved him away. The demon didn't have the same affinity for human food as the angel did, preferring to keep his meals to during their own little lunch meetings or to when he felt particularly drained and wanted to stuff his stomach full of grease-drowned takeaways. Tea, however, and a good glass of wine; that was an exception, for they were simply both exquisite and a necessity to function. Or perhaps he'd simply been on Earth for too long. 

A part of him felt like he had always loved Earth and humans. Perhaps too much.

The thought unsettled him and he chased it away with a burning mouthful of tea. "I'll pass. What time is it?"

Aziraphale extended his arm out to pull his sleeve away from his wrist and the old watch that adorned it. Crowley remembered that watch; he'd gotten it in the 60s, or sometime close to that time period. Aziraphale's entire outfit was a mix of the times; his shirt from one era, the waistcoat from another, the bowtie, too, and all of the furniture in his bookshop. Crowley thought it suited the angel rather well; little things he had picked up over the millennia's and particularly liked. Crowley simply kept his style with the times. His most dramatic changes would be inflicted upon his hair during moments of an identity crisis; growing it out to his mid back overnight or messing with some facial hair. Aziraphale had stayed constant and steady throughout the times. 

"Just past ten," he said, reaching for his tea. Crowley hummed in acknowledgement, looking back down at his tea. He thought it could do with more sugar, tasting extremely plain and too milky, but he held his tongue and simply continued to sip at it, letting it warm right down to his chilled bones. Aziraphale's eyes were on the window, watching little drops of rain race down to the puddles growing on the pavement below. People ran past, hoods held tight over their head, jackets zipped right up to their chins, and a kid jumped into a puddle and splashed water over his mother's jeans. 

"I find the rain relaxing," he commented absently, a smile on his lips and his eyes bright. "Do you remember the first time it rained?"

Crowley's cheeks warmed with a blush of pink. "Yes. Of course I do," he stated. It had been the same day as Aziraphale had handed over his flaming sword, and the two of them had stood atop a wall and watched them fight off a lion. Beyond them, a vicious storm rolled in sky, the rain coming down in torrents with flashes of lightning, and neither of them had ever seen it before. Their first assumption had been that it was holy water. Anything damned by something infernal would have hurt the plants and the animals and the humans, but holy water may have made it flourish. Still getting used to legs and knees and a human body, Crowley had staggered to Aziraphale's side, about to voice his concern and suggest they head to a shelter when the angel had lifted a wing to shelter him from it. In the end it turned out to be neither holy nor infernal, but Aziraphale still hadn't put his wing down. 

"It was simply magnificent; we hadn't seen anything like that before."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you'd call it? It took days to get your clothes to dry out again. It was a nuisance." He shook his head and rolled his eyes, leaned back in the chair and stretched his legs out underneath the table. 

"Rain these days just isn't the same as the first," sighed Aziraphale. His eyes returned to Crowley and then he hummed to himself, shuffled energetically in his seat and looked back at his croissant. 

"Well, let's pray that the Almighty sends down another flood, huh? Only there's so many boats this time around that it'd just be useless."

"Yes, I suppose so. Plus, there'd be that many boats it would take too long to find you smuggling what you shouldn't be." His lips held the hint of a teasing smile, and Crowley, with warm cheeks and a murderous glare, burrowed into his seat.

"Well, you couldn't possibly restart the world with just two of each animal," he muttered. "And they simply wouldn't stop crying. I was doing something  _bad,_ Angel. I was doing my demonic job of going against your angelic plans by doing that."

Aziraphale hummed in scepticism, his eyebrows raised. "Ah, yes, I'm sure that is why. You're terribly right, my dear."

"I am!" Defended Crowley. "Because I'm a _demon_. I do bad things."

"Yes, the most terrible of things. You really foiled our plans, smuggling those poor, innocent children into the boat."

"I bloody well hope so." As if to put emphasis on his point, he reached out across the table and plucked up part of his croissant, dropping it into his lips and chewing it noisily. Aziraphale offered nothing more than an expected but exasperated look and then tapped the corner of his mouth. Crowley lifted his hand and wiped his mouth, flicking away crumbs. 

"Let's go buy seeds," Aziraphale said, thankfully derailing the conversation. "I want to feed the ducks. Bread is no good for their diet, you know."

With a dramatic groan that made the receptionist and other few customers look over in concern, Crowley slid out of his seat and onto his feet. "If you must," he said. He pulled his wallet out, dropped a tenner onto the table, and then stuffed his hands into his pockets once more. Aziraphale grinned, put some more money on the table and gathered their dishes on the table, and then they headed back outside and to the nearest supermarket. While Aziraphale scrutinised the bags of seeds, Crowley snatched up a cheap umbrella. After paying the duo headed out, Crowley walking close enough to Aziraphale to have the umbrella he'd bought shield both of them from the rain and soon they both stood at the pond once more, the ducks eying Crowley warily but seeming to take Aziraphale's offered seeds as a peace offering. 

"They should have signs up, I think," Aziraphale said. He held the open bag of seeds in Crowley's direction, an offer for the demon to take some and feed the ducks himself. He didn't. "Because everyone feeds them bread. It's not healthy for them, and certainly not for their ducklings, but it's become possibly the biggest myth in human history. I'm still not quite sure how, when or where that started."

Crowley shrugged. "I'd argue Britain, 1800s," he offered. "They seem like the kind of people to do that."

Aziraphale curiously quirked an eyebrow at him, mulling the thought over. "Perhaps," he finally said and he shrugged. When Crowley didn't take the offered seeds he pulled the bag back towards himself, dipped his other hand inside, and sprinkled it out far across the water. 

"What do you think about them, then?" Asked Crowley, and Aziraphale hummed.

"About who?"

"You know who. The angel and the Winchesters. What're your thoughts on 'em?"

Aziraphale pressed his lips together in thought, eyes turning from the ducks to Crowley. "I suppose I'm not entirely sure, but I know their intentions are good. They want the same as we do, after all."

"Do they?"

Aziraphale gave him a look. "We want to avert Armageddon and so do they. So, yes, Crowley, they do. I still think working with them is a good idea and you won't be able to change my mind on that one, Crowley. No, not at all. We could use their help in finding the child and, possibly, also in restraining them." Crowley grimaced. 

"I just don't like the idea that we're... bringing more attention to  _us._ Not just to you or to me, Angel, but the fact that we're here together. You and I both know we'll be in the shits if they," he tipped his head upwards and then pointed downwards, "find out we're kicking it together."

"Hereditary enemies," Aziraphale commented with a small laugh. He looked a little stressed; his eyes pinched, lips tight. "And here I am, letting a foul creature shield me from the rain." Crowley tipped his head to the side and raised an eyebrow, unamused at him, and then he lifted his lips from his teeth to grin viciously at him.

"Your very divine being burns, dear Angel," he snorted. Aziraphale's eyes glanced around at the empty park.

"We'll simply keep an eye out. Perhaps we should spend a little less time in one another's company, but... I've yet to think they would be...scrutinising us." 

"At least your kind is all about, uh,  _forgiveness,"_ Crowley scoffed. His free hand that wasn't holding up the umbrella for them found its home in his front pocket. He hadn't necessarily suspected they were currently being watched, but he didn't particularly want to risk it. Aziraphale gave him a sad look and Crowley shrugged. The angel was lucky to not understand what he truly meant whenever he brought up Hell. Heaven might be strict and cold, but he'd rather that than what Hell had up its sleeve. 

Aziraphale huffed out a breath, looking a little dubious, but he said nothing and threw out another handful of seeds for the ducks. Then he bent down, poured the contents out of the bag in a pile near the end of the pond, and rolled up the plastic bag in his hands. "We'll have to report back to our respective superiors at some point, yes, but that doesn't mean we have to give anything away about what we're doing, does it?" He replied, and Crowley heaved out a sigh.

"Obviously not," he scoffed. "I'd like to imagine you think I'm smarter than that." 

"Of course I do," Aziraphale stated, nudging his arm. "But I'd like to clarify that neither of us are tattle-tales."

Crowley snorted on a laugh. "Tattle-tales," he echoed, an eyebrow raised. "Not at all, Angel. What about that Castiel bloke?" He questioned, and he pressed his lips together.

"What about him?" Aziraphale asked. Crowley shrugged.

"Him and Heaven. Is  _he_ a tattle-tale?" He asked. "He likely to be a tattle-tale? Likely to hose me down with a nice refreshing spray of holy water?" 

Aziraphale frowned. "I doubt that," he replied. "And I wouldn't let that happen."

"I knew we were friends."

"Of course we're friends, Crowley," Aziraphale tutted. His eyes flicked down to his watch and then up to the sky, peering out from the curtain of rain around them. "We should have taken the tea to go," he murmured. Crowley snorted and kicked a stone into the pond, sending ripples out across the water. 

"A tad cold, are you?" He asked, and Aziraphale let out a small laugh.

"Not really, but I suppose you must be," he replied, and Crowley hissed out a breath between his teeth.

"What's it to you?"

Aziraphale looked mildly amused by Crowley's prickliness. "Oh, nothing. Just a thought."

"Do I look cold? I'm perfectly fine."

"I'm not saying you aren't," Aziraphale hummed. Crowley eyed him sceptically but said nothing. The ducks on the pond were hovering by the edge, eying the pile of seeds Aziraphale had left for them, and Crowley jerked his head backwards. The two continued to walk around the pond, giving the ducks a wide enough berth that they shot out of the pond and to the seeds. 

When noon finally rolled around, the rain hadn't lessened much. Crowley was thoroughly unimpressed by this although he continued to refuse whenever Aziraphale offered to hold the umbrella for them. The trio wandered up, each holding their own umbrella above them (save for Dean, who seemed to gravitate awkwardly between the two others and trying to look macho while doing so.)

"Glad to see you both back," said Sam with a smile, and Crowley grunted. He turned his gaze to his shoes and paid little attention to the conversation that took place, suddenly much more interested in the way drops of water gather in the thin blades of grass and the way they crunched beneath his feet. 

It was only when Aziraphale nudged his side, narrowly missing his nerves that would have made him jump, did the demon look back up again and between the three of them. 

"I was thinking we should take this... somewhere safer to discuss," Sam said, obviously understanding the fact that Crowley had paid no attention to whatever they had been speaking about. He raised his eyebrows. 

"You've got somewhere safe to talk about the antichrist, huh?" He mused, and Sam glanced back to Dean. 

"Where we stay. It's safe and we can talk about this without worrying about anyone eavesdropping."

Obviously, they had had a lengthy discussion about this the night prior before they had come to this conclusion, and Crowley spun on his heels to look at Aziraphale. "Well, Angel?" He asked, and Aziraphale shrugged. 

"I think that would be a good idea," he agreed, bobbing his head in a nod. He offered a questioning glance at Crowley, who simply shrugged in feigned nonchalance.

"Whatever. Lead the way, moose boy."

Sam looked rather befuddled at that while Dean looked amused, but nonetheless the trio turned on the path and began to lead the way back. 

"We've got enough room in our car," Sam said over his shoulder, "unless you'd rather make it there somehow else."

They ended up going in their car, all three supernatural beings huddled together in the backseat awkwardly. Crowley sat in the middle of the two angels, his shoulders hunched and constantly biting back a retort and the need to shove either of them (most likely Castiel) to try and get a little more room. Dean slid a disc into his car and jumped when  _Queen_ blared out of it rather than the artist he had put in. Crowley avoided their eyes sheepishly, fiddling with his thumbs for the entire ride there. 

The safe place, it seemed, was a bunker outside of Lebanon. It looked all but abandoned from the outside, the only hint anyone had been nearby recently the tire trails. Warnings seemed to simply come from the building in waves, threatening and powerful, and Crowley shuffled on the spot once he had clambered out of the car, eying everyone else. 

"You sure this is a safe place?" He asked, hands deep in his pockets to stop him from fidgeting. "Feels more like a trap, if you ask me."

"It's warding," responded Dean. "It won't be a problem because we've invited you here. But it is for everything else."

Crowley didn't like that answer, and he made it known in his pout and the way he scuffed his feet across the floor as he approached the door. It made him feel hot and sweaty, claustrophobic, but he didn't evaporate or burst into flames as he crossed the threshold and the feeling subsided as soon as he stepped inside.

It was much bigger than either he or Aziraphale had anticipated, a large staircase leading down to a kitchen and a meeting area, it seemed, and then expanding further in a twist of large rooms and hallways. His shoes clicked with each slow step he took down the stairs, and Aziraphale was busy commenting on how it was nice and spacious and it could really do with some plants, for the ones they had were dying already. Crowley glared at one of them and it perked up slightly as if recoiling in shock.

Just as he was about to step down onto the thrown out rug at the end of the stairs, Sam turned around with wide eyes, hand held up. "Wait! Uh, sorry, just... one second." He scurried over to the rug while Crowley held one foot above it, holding the staircase bannister and watching him curiously. He lifted the edge of the rug and Crowley watched his foot scuff out a line of a Devil's trap. 

"Oh, for Heaven's - Hell's - sake," Crowley hissed, but he waited until Sam had rubbed a bit out, therefore disconnecting it, before he stepped down onto the carpet. Sam smiled sheepishly.

"Can't be too careful," he offered. Crowley simply rolled his eyes and glared at the carpet. He hated hunters. "Can I get you two tea or coffee?"

Crowley scoffed. "One might think we were here to negotiate peace instead of find an antichrist," he snorted. 

"I'll take tea, please," Aziraphale requested with a smile, and Crowley simply returned to his brooding demon look, slouching into a chair and glowering at everyone. Aziraphale could do the niceties and he'd be there to remind everyone they were fighting both Heaven and Hell to find the antichrist. 

A kettle in the kitchen boiled and coffee found its way into Dean's hand, tea into Aziraphale and Sam's, and only Castiel and Crowley sat at the table until they had finished making it.

"So," Crowley hummed, regarding Castiel with curiosity. "You not working with Heaven then?" He asked, and Crowley sat a little stiffer. He looked none too pleased to be sitting along with Crowley and had they been in any other circumstances, he would have taken the opportunity to make him a little more uncomfortable. He held himself back from doing that, however. 

The angel shifted in his seat, glanced to the kitchen, and shook his head. "No. I'm not," he replied tightly. "I was sent to watch the Winchester's... a while ago."

"Oh, really? They got you wrapped around their pinkies, huh?" He grinned, holding his own pinky up, elbow on the table. "Humans. Wild little things." 

"I would think that a demon would be intent on throwing us off the antichrist's trail," he commented instead, eyes searching, and Crowley spread his hands out innocently in front of him.

"Hey, I've gotten fond of the wine here. Can't get more wine if everyone's dead, can I?" He offered a shrug. "I can't continue to cause mayhem if everyone's dead."

Castiel regarded him with a suspicious expression and Crowley lowered his shades, winked at him, and then slumped back into the seat. Everyone else slowly slid back inside the room, taking other seats around the large table. 

"So," Dean said, voice loud and sharp as he sat down. "Antichrist. Let's start from the top, yeah?"

Pushing his glasses back up his nose Crowley gestured to Aziraphale who was mid-sip in his tea. He let out a noise, swallowed quickly and set the cup down.

"Ah, yes. Well, you already know the story of how he came to be," the angel said with a vague glance and tip of his head in Crowley's direction. "And we've come to understand that there was a mix up of the children. However, the nunnery with all of the files on the children was burnt down, so our only lead we have is that he's in Kansas. Most likely." 

Crowley grimaced. He crossed one leg over the other and seemed to see how much he could make his body contort into an impossibly comfortable position in the chair. His chin settled on the palm of his hand, and before he realised it, his breath was coming in a pattern of snake-like snores and Aziraphale had to reach out and nudge him to wake him up.

"Can you really not stay awake while talking about the end of the world?" Dean asked in disbelief, and Crowley rolled his eyes, groaning and sitting up. 

"Mmm, fuck off. I know everything that's going on. I don't need a recap," he snorted, waving a hand. "Have you come up with a plan to find the bastard yet?" He asked sharply. "No? Exactly." He let out a groan and stretched his arms up above his head, cracks and pops coming from his joints. 

"Would there not be... I don't know, some supernatural way you guys would be able to find him?" Dean asked with a sigh. "Between a demon and two angels, we've got basically all bases covered. Can't one of you... sense him?"

"Oh, aye, that's exactly how celestial and infernal beings work," snorted Crowley, but he bit back any further retorts and simply shook his head. 

"Crawly -"

"For the Christ knows how many times, it's _Crowley_."

"Is right," Castiel continued, and Crowley huffed out a breath and glared at him, folding his arms across his chest. "We might be able to tell as Armageddon comes closer and his powers continue to strengthen, but our best bet is continuing to see things happening and hope they centre around the antichrist. Was there not supposed to be a hellhound going to him?" Asked Castiel. Crowley nodded.

"They're gonna let it out soon," he replied. "They think I'll already be with the kid to make sure the hound gets there. I can phone in and check when they've released it, but I'm not about to clue Downstairs into the fact that we've lost the damn kid." 

"Can you trace hellhounds?" Dean asked, and Crowley pressed his lips together thoughtfully. 

"Not that I know of. They're slippery things and you two can't even see them," he stated, eyes going over Sam and Dean. 

"Can you not just go up to Heaven or Hell and ask about it?" Dean asked, sounding thoroughly exasperated. Crowley couldn't help but laugh and he pointed a finger at Castiel.

"If it was that simple, why don't you get your little leashed angel here to do that?" He scoffed. "The angels don't know where the antichrist is. The demon's'll make me a lovely little vodka-holy-water mix if they find out I've lost the damn antichrist. Plus, they never actually told me where the kid would go. I just got to hand it off to some incompetent satanic nuns," he said, waving his hands in a dismissive gesture. Sam and Dean shared a look between one another but decided not to pick apart any of what he said to question it individually.

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face and sighed, then took a long swig of his coffee. Crowley wondered if it was simply coffee in that cup. 

"We wish it was that easy," Aziraphale said, much softer than Crowley. "And that's why I'm hoping working together will be beneficial. We could spread out, look around and follow any leads, if you have any. We might have to simply... wait it out a little," he said, frowning. "Crowley and I will have to give false reports to Heaven and Hell, as well. We shouldn't be seen with you lot too much if you're under scrutiny of your own." 

Castiel wore a specific expression that Crowley couldn't quite place but he nodded his head. "It would be wise," he murmured. His hands clasped in his lap and he looked over Aziraphale and Crowley for a moment longer. 

"Say we only find the antichrist once he's, what, gained his full powers and in the process of ending everything? What then?"

Crowley exchanged a look with Aziraphale. The two of them had been asking each other the same question as far back as eleven years ago, and neither of them were really sure.

"He's not going to stop Armageddon," Crowley said. "Not as long as he's alive. You're hunters; you've fought before, you can do it again," he shrugged. Dean's eyes narrowed.

"Demons like you, yes -" he said, but before he could continue Crowley sniggered.

"I can assure you, you've not fought a demon like me before," he told him, perhaps a tad unnecessarily but he was tired and stressed and he'd be damned if they undermined him on top of everything. Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Is that a challenge?" He retorted. Crowley's lips peeled back to hiss at him, glaring darkly.

"It will be if you don't shut it," he hissed. Aziraphale put a hand on his knee beneath the table and gave him a warning look. Crowley hunkered down into his seat like a scolded, brooding teenager. 

"We've discussed this before," the angel said, "and as much as I'd prefer to do this without any violence, that... that might not be the case," he murmured sadly, a frown curling his lips downwards. 

"It would seem that way," Sam agreed. "But say these little... miracles  _are_ because of the antichrist, then it might be a different case. You were supposed to give the antichrist to a specific family, yes?" Crowley nodded. "And I assume it's one that wouldn't raise him to be a very fair person. Well, if they got swapped up, perhaps that isn't the case."

"He's still the antichrist," Crowley said. "The power'll go to his head either way. Miracles only go so far. The hellhound won't help." 

"We can reach out to other hunters," Sam offered, looking at Dean. "Just ask them to keep an eye out for anything that's... not necessarily demonic, but still supernatural."

"Do we still have that many connections?" Dean snorted. His eyes were trained on his ridiculously dark coffee and he looked just as bitter.

"We have some," Sam told him. "We'll ask around. Maybe the demons," he looked to Crowley, "might drop something about where he is without you having to ask. If something specific happens somewhere, we'll go and check it out." 

Crowley shared a look with Aziraphale who seemed fairly pleased by that. Both of them nodded nonchalantly.

"I suppose that's the best we can do," Aziraphale said. "And it's better than nothing. I suppose we should head back ourselves, then. Can we keep in contact?"

"Have either of you got a mobile?" Sam asked, and Crowley held his hand up slightly. Sam pulled his own phone out, gestured for Crowley's, and then he put in three numbers. "If you hear anything or need anything, message us. I'd appreciate if you messaged us while you were outside as well, so then we have your number to do the same."

Crowley offered a thumbs up, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. "Coolio. Right then, Angel. Let's bounce." He clapped a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder and urged him to his feet. He felt their eyes follow them up the stairs and right up until the heavy bunker door closed between them and they found themselves once more outside, the air cool. Luckily, the rain had stopped, the sky clearing up. Crowley pulled his phone out and sent a simple  _it's Crowley_ to each of the new numbers in his phone. 

"We haven't got a ride back," Aziraphale commented, looking at the bare road in front of them. When that realisation hit them, Crowley let out a loud groan. 

"I don't suppose a miracle cab could drive past?" He asked, smiling sweetly at Aziraphale. The angel returned the smile and then held out a hand to signal the passing taxi to their side. Aziraphale held a door open for Crowley, saying a soft  _after you,_ and Crowley could almost forget the upcoming Armageddon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Also, I hope you like the chapter lengths; these ones are averaging around 5K each part so far, but do you guys think they're too short or too long? Or would you rather it be paced a little faster or even slower? If you have any feedback for the fic at all, I'd love to hear it!


	4. Good Men, the Last Wave By

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be developing angels and demons more than they were in Good Omens; more so like Supernatural style. They're more powerful - more angelic and more demonic, more celestial and more infernal - because I simply love angels and demons and I want to make it clear that they are far from human. I'll also probably develop more of Crowley's being as something a little different, what with him once being an angel, though that all will most likely come further into future parts/closer to the end. Just thought I'd say that. 
> 
> Anywho; enjoy!

It was an accident.

So what if Crowley had been tempting the cab driver to drive a little faster.

"What about it, Angel?" He had said with a grin. The angel in question had looked a little (a lot) uncomfortable, pressing himself into the leather seats of the cab and surely leaving Aziraphale-shaped grooves in the leather. "We're tight on time."

He hadn't, however, expected that a woman on a bike would decide to cross the previously deserted road at the same time as they sped down it.

"You hit her!" Exclaimed Aziraphale, not aimed at the driver. Crowley threw his hands up in the air, pressing back against the car door.

"I didn't do a thing!"

"You were making him speed - good Heavens -" Aziraphale took his seatbelt off and scrambled out of the door and towards the woman. Crowley lingered in the car, letting out a loud groan and weighing the pros of cons of staying in the vehicle. Eventually, with the fact that Aziraphale would be mad, would be disappointed, he finally dragged himself out of the car and towards the two of them, grimacing at the sight of the woman and her broken bones, groaning on the floor. Now, Crowley didn't enjoy hurting people despite being a very demonic demon, and his eyes jumped to avoid the woman guiltily. 

"Come on, I'm sure she's fine," he grumbled, looking to Aziraphale. "Let's just go, come on."

"She's hurt!" Aziraphale responded snappily, and then he turned his gaze back to the groaning woman. His hands ghosted over the break in the woman's leg and, easy as ever, it slipped painlessly back into place. He jerked his head to her twisted bike and her belongings spread out across the road and when Crowley didn't immediately move to gather them, Aziraphale glared at him pointedly. With a sigh and a harsh kick to a loose pebble on the road, Crowley relented; he stepped over to the bike, picked it up and leaned it against the cab, and then he gathered the books in his arms and set them on top of the trunk. 

"Right, see, she's fine," he stated. "Let's  _go_."

Aziraphale was helping the woman onto her feet, saying how lucky she was to have not broken anything. "And oh - your bike, too! You certainly got lucky!" He said with a soft laugh. With the wave of his hand the bike was completely fixed; no more broken bars or twisted handles. Crowley rolled his eyes at his little miracles, feeling utterly repulsed by it, in fact. 

"We're giving her a ride home," Aziraphale told him, bringing her closer to the cab. One last miracle brought a bike rack onto the back of the cab and Aziraphale looked pointedly between the rack and the bike. Crowley stood his ground, staring right back, and Aziraphale's eyes hardened slightly. With another excessive roll of his eyes and a groan, Crowley trudged to the bike and pulledit onto the rack, grumbling to himself all the while. Aziraphale had helped the confused woman into the cab and had picked up the books, setting them in the passengers seat. Then he turned to Crowley, an eyebrow raised. Crowley shook his head.

"Nah, nope, nope," he said, shaking his head. "You go. I'll get another ride," he said, shaking his head. "And plus, we need to split up either way."

Aziraphale frowned at him, looking a mix of exasperated and disappointed. Crowley shrugged it off by avoiding his eyes. "Where are you going to get another ride?" He asked instead. Crowley grinned and lifted his left hand. His fingers snapped together and a second after, a car - a beautiful, gorgeous, sleek, perfect car - honked at them, lights illuminating them. Then he turned his eyes on the woman, having completely forgotten that the human was still there, but she seemed to have hardly noticed it, still dazed and rubbing her eyes, allowing Aziraphale to guide her towards the back of the cab.

"Fine," grunted the angel, nodding his head. He looked a little conflicted for a moment and Crowley wondered what he was thinking. He always wondered what he was thinking. "I guess I'll see you back at the motel?"

Crowley's cheeks twitched. Paranoia spiked. "I'll get a new room," he stated. "Don't want to cue Up or Downstairs in on us, eh?" 

Aziraphale had to nod at that. "I suppose you're right. Very well. I'll see to it that this woman gets home safely, and, uh. Continue business." He said that with a little edge, as if he had suddenly thought of a lead or found something out. Behind his shades, Crowley eyed him suspiciously. Then he simply nodded and continued on towards his beloved Bentley, running a hand along the door and up to the handle. He all but virtually melted into the beloved leather, his hands finding home on the steering wheel. When he started the car  _Don't Stop Me Now_ began to blare, and it forced a smile upon his lips. He watched as the cab holding Aziraphale and the woman drove off and part of him wondered if he should have stayed behind with them. He was, however, tired and on edge. He wanted to process his own thoughts and gather them, and he truly didn't want to spend a dangerous amount of time around Aziraphale. As much as he enjoyed the angel's company, his priority was to not end up dead so long as he could avoid it.

He focused on driving back into town and taking his bag from Aziraphale's motel room and then getting his own one further down. It had a single bed, which was depressing, but he rolled out onto it and sprawled his limbs out as well as he could. His eyes drifted to the clock. Any second now and the hellhound would be released, running straight to the antichrist. Armageddon would be in process and they'd have, at most, a few days to avert it before the four horsemen should find him and help him complete it. All the while the antichrist would be falling into his powers, sending wave after wave after wave of chaos and destruction out.

Crowley wondered how it would affect him; would he feel drawn to the antichrist like some demonic natural instinct? Would he lose all sense of reality and himself in favour of blindly following the antichrist and the horsemen, throwing himself into the throes of a vicious war with Heaven, teeth gnashing and hellfire burning the ground he walked on? Perhaps he would come face to face with Aziraphale in that state. His eyes would be blown wide, yellow and serpentine, and his fangs would drip with fresh blood. The angel would know that Crowley wasn't there anymore, no, rather replaced with that mindless savage that was  _Crawly,_ and he would still make an attempt to reach Crowley. He'd put aside whatever divine weapon he had been dolled out and he'd reach one hand out, smile despite his fear, and tell him  _please, Crowley. We can still leave._ And perhaps Crowley would blink, stagger for a moment, and Aziraphale would grin in encouragement and Crowley would gut him where he stood. 

Perhaps they should have a backup plan, Crowley decided. If such a scenario were to happen, if the rise of the antichrist pulled on his demonic instincts, then they had to have a plan to stop Crowley from turning into the demon he was. He knew Aziraphale himself wouldn't fight Crowley if it were to come to that, and if he did, they both know he would lose. Aziraphale was but a principality in the ranks of Heaven and Crowley was a twisted-inside-out being, once so utterly divine his angelic name could have shaken the Earth to its core, who Heaven had rejected and damned personally, who had burned alive in hellfire and been reborn. Of course, however, no one truly knew what angel Crowley had been. He and Aziraphale hadn't spoken about it; yes, the angel had asked once, and Crowley told him his memories had been lost in the Fall. It was quite the opposite, if anything; they had been seared into his mind for ever and for longer; a constant reminder of what he once had, who he once had been, everything he had lost. Perhaps that was the real punishment of it all. But Crowley would never spit that name again. He was no longer  _Him,_ nor was he any longer Crawly. And no one needed to know who he had been before he became Crowley. 

But he digressed. Crowley needed a backup plan should this surge of infernal energy draw him in like a feral mutt, and he knew that Aziraphale would not be able to take him out even if he tried, and Crowley did not want to be like that for long enough to get in a true scuffle with some higher angel. He could only imagine Michael's face if she saw him like that; some bloodthirsty, raging  _demon._ She would laugh at him and how far he Fell and she would, no doubt, make sure his end was painful and drawn out. Perhaps she would make him spend eternity like that.

No, Crowley would rather not. Therefore he needed a way to deal with himself by himself before it was too late. It was hard to kill a demon, even harder to kill one like Crowley. Something close to a human suicide wouldn't do much more than leave him with a poor stomach and aching body, a pounding migraine that cracked his skull apart from behind his eyes. He could walk into a church and sprawl out on the Holy ground and wait for it to do its job, but that would be long and painful. It would take hours and would surely drive him mad before he died. He could walk into some amateur exorcists trap, but that posed more of a risk to the exorcist than himself and it wouldn't even kill him; simply send him right back to Hell. Sage was similar to the church option; long and painful. He'd need an insane amount of sage to actually do the job; he'd have to lock himself in a tiny, airtight room and burn every piece of sage on the planet and wait for the smoke to burn him through from the inside out. No thank you.

Holy water, it seemed, was one of the better options even if it made his stomach twist and heart beat furiously beneath his ribcage. He had seen what it did to other demons and he had felt the effects of a few drops of diluted Holy water, and it was not a fun thing. It would be even harder to procure; pure Holy water would be near impossible for a demon to procure, but it would do the job quicker than a diluted substitute. 

However... Aziraphale would easily be able to get it with no more than a flick of his fingers. (Perhaps a little more than that, but much easier than the lengths Crowley would have to go through to get it.)

Crowley's hand dipped into his pocket, pulling out a thin, slender phone - humans certainly loved making technology as slender as they could these days - and he found Aziraphale's number. Surely he would have dropped that idiotic woman off at her home by now, if not having already returned to his own motel room.

"Crowley?" The angel squawked on the other side. He sounded as a child might when they were caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Crowley's eyebrows drew together, his tongue running along his teeth.

"Everything alright there, Angel?" He asked. 

"What? Yes. Of course everything's fine - I'm perfectly fine. Uh, what is it you're calling for - are  _you_ alright?"

Crowley let out a sigh at the angel's odd behaviour but he shoved it aside for the moment being. "I'm fine. I need you to do a favour for me."

"Oh, sure. What is it?"

"Well, you see. I need some Holy water. I was thinking - I was thinking, it'd be quite handy for me, you know, what with the whole... Armageddon thing, Downstairs, demons, etcetera, etcetera. I need Holy water. You can get that, right?" 

He could virtually hear Aziraphale's frown, sense his reluctance. "I can't just - just give away Holy water, Crowley. If Gabriel finds out I'm giving Holy water out to a demon, he won't be happy. And why would you even need it? I'm afraid I don't understand."

Crowley rolled his eyes in irritation, biting his lip and letting out a heavy sigh. He sat up on the squeaky motel bed, swinging his legs off the edge and stretching them out. "For my own reasons, Aziraphale," he stressed. He knew that if he said it was for his own destruction then the angel would most definitely  _not_ give him the Holy water, but nonetheless he hoped Aziraphale would simply trust him on this one. He would consider himself and Aziraphale close enough to do one another little favours like that, but nonetheless the fact remained that Crowley was a demon and Aziraphale was an angel. Aziraphale was used to Heave's strict rules and regulations, the do's and don't's they had. Of course he would be hesitant to hand out such things. Crowley didn't blame him.

Aziraphale exhaled a little sigh. Something rustled behind him. "I can't give away Holy water, Crowley," he said, sounding truly apologetic. Crowley grit his teeth together, his grip a little tight on his phone.

"Angel, come on," he whined. "Just a bottle of pure Holy water. They won't even notice!"

"Crowley -" a pause. "I'm sorry, Crowley, I have to go."

"Aw, Angel, don't you - _come_ _on_!" Hissed Crowley as he was met with the monotone beeping as Aziraphale -  _Aziraphale_ of all people - hung up on him. He growled, tossing his phone onto his bed and curling his hands into tight fists by his sides. Then, because the universe he loved did not love him back, his phone rang and it was not from Aziraphale.

"Crowley," greeted Hastur on the other end, his voice thick and sounding as if the letters fell out of his mouth like gravel, like heavy, wet cement. His tone, always so taunting and smug and self assure, grated Crowley's nerves and he had to take a moment to stop himself from saying something regrettable. 

"Hastur. How's it going down there?"

"We've released the hellhound." He sounded eager, so damn excited meanwhile Crowley's stomach dropped like an anvil tied around someone's ankles, dragging him down to the bottom of an endless lake. 

"Oh!" He said instead of any of his thoughts. "Perfect, great. That's awesome."

"I'm assuming you are currently with the antichrist?" Asked Hastur, and Crowley hummed.

"Oh, of course. Not let the thing out of my sight. Uh... how long do you think it'll take the hound to get to him?" Crowley asked in return. His fingers fiddled with a loose thread on the bedsheets beneath him. 

"It should only take a few moments. Ya not see 'im? Oh, we've got the best one." Then, a little more suspiciously. "You should love him."

"Hm? Ah, yes; I see him now," Crowley lied through gritted teeth. "Big thing, ain't he?" 

Hastur chuckled, low and deep and dark and painful sounding, a sound that might haunt a person's nightmares, might echo in the skulls of the paranoid, that terrified the demons in their last moments before Hastur had killed them - for of course Crowley knew what Hastur had done to whoever had displeased him in the past. A perfect example of a demon. 

"He sure is. You make sure the antichrist settles with him, huh?" It sounded mocking, challenging, as if daring Crowley to reveal that he had not a damned clue where the blasted hound or the antichrist was. "Might very well be the last chance ya get to prove yourself."

"Oh, you know I'd hate to let you all down," Crowley quirked, unamused. Hastur let out another bitter chuckle, a dying rasp caught in someone's throat.

"Of course. Hail Satan, Crawly."

The phone beeped, flatline and monotone, and Crowley glared at the damned thing. A mix of emotions that Crowley would never admit to feeling coursed through his veins, tightened around his ribcage and his heart. He did not need to breathe nor did he need a heartbeat but all of a sudden it felt as if he needed both of those human aspects very so much at the moment, his breath chasing away from his lungs and his heart pounding in his chest, threatening to jump right out of his ribcage and run away from all this trouble Crowley had wound himself up in. 

What now? 

They did not know where neither hellhound or antichrist was. It was most likely to be too late when they did find him. Aziraphale would not give him his emergency Holy water and he sounded as if he had been in the middle of a meeting in Heaven - if he had been then that only served to make them even more doomed than they were. Crowley felt as if whatever hope and faith he may have had stored away inside of himself was torn out, crumbling to ash and dust inside of himself, expelling from his body in the choked out sigh that staggered past his lips as he fell back onto the motel bed. His eyes spiralled up to look at the ceiling above him, popcorn textured and uneven. He tore his sunglasses of, holding them by his side and glowering murderously up at the ceiling and the universe beyond it.

"Why have You got to do this?" He asked, his eyes falling soft and sad. "I know You love Your tests - Lord, do I know - but this - _this_ \- it's too much!" His eyes fluttered closed. He wouldn't get a reaction from The Almighty and he knew it; he hadn't for many millennia. It didn't stop him from trying. "Let them be. Don't test them to destruction."

His hands rubbed into his eyes, a shuddering groan shaking free of his throat. 

He would not find himself back in Hell at the hands of the demons that wanted to see him stripped apart again and again and again. He would not find himself in the lower circles of Hell for eternity to have himself destroyed and reformed again, nor would he find himself in the throes of a war he did not want to be part of. If he couldn't have an emergency option with the Holy water, then he needed something else.

Some place else. 

Heaven or Hell could and would find him eventually; if they wanted to track him down, both were capable of doing so. But if he could buy himself some time then he may be able to come up with a better plan. 

There was a small pile of paper and a discarded pen throughout the room and he began to jot down every place he knew; every planet and every galaxy, every pocket dimension available to him, every nook and cranny in existence that he could get to. It brought up bittersweet memories of creating some of them with Her by his side, how his hands had once been capable of moulding physics. His blinks could fill rivers, his hands could create galaxies, and they had. 

There were plenty of places that would certainly gain him some time before Heaven or Hell should smoke him out, but they were too inhabitable, even for Crowley. He needed a place that he could stay there for months - for years, ideally - and not give him away. Saturn might be interesting - he would have loved to gaze upon their rings once more - but that would hardly buy him a month.

Now, Alpha Centauri; that was promising. A handful of light years away, large enough he could bury himself in its furthest corners. It would buy him a few years, dare he be optimistic. 

Not only would it buy him time, but Aziraphale too. Heaven wouldn't be happy with him, of course. The two of them could leave together, wait out Armageddon and come up with the next step in their plan. 

Aziraphale had seemed busy, however, on the phone. He was probably searching for his own leads on the antichrist. He would give the angel the rest of today and find him some time tomorrow, then, let him do his business before seeking him out and proposing his idea, even if he burned with desire to run off immediately. He could risk waiting one more day. 

With his plan decided Crowley gathered all the pieces of floating paper, bundling them into a pile and crumpling them up. He threw them over his shoulder and into the little trashcan in the room, and he couldn't help but still feel defeated and hopeless. Mournful, even. He did not want this world or its inhabitants to go out in a blaze of holy and damned fury, didn't want to see the world flattened to make a perfect battlefield for celestial and infernal beings that were all as equally bloodhungry as one another. It had grown on Crowley in the past several millennia that he'd been on the planet for. He couldn't wrap his mind around how this was Her big plan; how She actually thought that this was the right thing to do. Crowley knew that She worked in odd ways and that if She didn't want you to understand Her, then you simply wouldn't. Crowley understood that and had learned that the hard way. His inquiries, his innocent little questions, the debates and the opinions he held; that had been enough to see him rejected from Heaven. 

If he thought about it too much, he could relive the Fall exactly as it had happened. He could feel himself crash, feel his wings fail to extend and catch him. He had felt Her love and Her Grace leave him, leave him empty and cold and bitter. Felt every little bit of holiness and divinity fall from him as if someone was flaying him alive, and no matter how much he had screamed and yelled and cried and begged for Her to take him back, he had simply continued to Fall. Until he hadn't.

A shudder seized Crowley's body, shaking out his limbs on the dirty motel bed, and he eased himself with slow, steadying breaths. 

Until he could find Aziraphale and they could hop out to Alpha Centauri, he ought to do something else. And so he pulled his phone back into his cold hands and he looked through his contacts. Eventually he settled on Sam's, seeing as he would probably be the one to mind him texting him the least.

_Hellhound's been let out. You might want to consider how safe your bunker is._

A little ominous, perhaps, but they deserved to know. It was what they had promised one another, after all. It only took a few minutes for Sam to respond.

 _I take it other demons have told you so?_ He asked.  _How much time does that leave us and how much danger does that put us in?_

Crowley was typing out the response when Sam messaged him once more.

_Can we phone? Or meet?_

_Either, I guess_

_We'll be in town in half an hour._

_Starview Motel. Room 34_

The phone told him Sam had seen his last message and so he set his phone aside and simply waited.

He did not necessarily  _trust_ these people, but he understood that they agreed on something and that they had a truce. They were willing to overlook their differences and work together to sort this whole situation out. They didn't have to agree on anything else. 

Dean seemed a bit like an arrogant prick; a little too head strong for Crowley's liking for it was too similar to himself. Sam, he could respect; a willing negotiator but a ready fighter. Castiel; he was irritating, like any other angel. However, he was interesting. An angel that might be considered  _fallen_ in today's terms (though Crowley would not call Castiel a fallen angel, for he had not fallen and he did not deserve such a title when he hadn't gone through the pain Crowley had to earn the title-) though seemed more as simply a rebel. A renegade. Rogue. He hadn't been cast out but had rather chosen himself to deviate from Heaven and its orders, and for two humans nonetheless. It was certainly interesting. He could tell Castiel was above Aziraphale's rank, perhaps settling somewhere around Seraph at his best guess, though he'd need to see him in action to decide that. Despite his disconnect from Heaven Castiel and his obvious poor relationship - his readiness to kill Aziraphale told him such and even led Crowley to believe he probably had killed angels before - Castiel still thought of himself as an angel nonetheless, still held onto his divinity, still saw himself as a being of Heaven and celestial intent. It was interesting. 

There was a knock at his door. Crowley jolted from his thoughts and was shocked to realise the trio was already in front of his door, their voices hushed as they spoke to one another. Crowley swung himself up and onto his feet and greeted them at the door with a tense grin. He waved a hand to the motel room behind him.

"Make yourselves at home," he drawled. Once the last one of them had come into the room Crowley closed and locked the door behind them and then he peered suspiciously out of the window and drew the curtains. A flick of his finger turned on the overhead light and the buzzing lamps either side of his bed, and he took position against the wall, his arms folded loosely across his chest.

"You said the hellhound had been released," Sam began. He was sitting at one of the rickety wooden chairs in the room and Dean had claimed the slouching armchair while Castiel decided to stand by the wall opposite Crowley like some security guard. Still tense around the demon, it seemed. It wasn't like Crowley had made any attempts to ease his anxiety, nor was he about to.

"Yup," he confirmed with a bob of his head. "Got a call a few minutes before I messaged you. It'll already be with the antichrist," he stated stiffly, his eyes flicking aside. He realised his glasses were still off from earlier and it made his shoulders tense, raise a little higher, but none of them had said anything. Crowley decided to ignore the initial double-take Dean had done. 

"I don't suppose they clarified where they were?" Sam asked hopefully, a grimace upon his features. Crowley shook his head and Dean sighed dramatically.

"No, they didn't. I'm fairly sure they do suspect I don't know where he is, however."

"How come?"

Crowley let out an irritated noise. "Hastur's a prick. He'd take any chance he could get to make sure we could have a lovely little chat down in the pits, I don't doubt he's guessing that I ain't with the kid." His jaw locked slightly, eyes flicking away once more. He moved swiftly on before anyone could comment on that. "With the hellhound his powers will be amplified. Things are going to start happening rapidly, and they aren't gonna be good. The horsemen are probably meeting up right now and then they'll go meet the antichrist. Then Earth will be flattened into a nice battlefield. Your bunker good enough for that?"

The Winchester's shared a look that did not promise Crowley a single good thing and he dug his nails into the palms of his hands. 

"Where's the angel?" Dean asked, and Crowley raised an eyebrow. He shrugged.

"Doing something," he said. "Probably following a lead or talking to Heaven. He seemed busy." Dean hummed in acknowledgement and Crowley drummed his fingers along his arms.

"If he's got his powers then he might start showing signs of where he is," Sam offered, and Crowley pressed his lips together. He could hope.

"Maybe, maybe not. But unless this antichrist kid was raised in some nice Christian household, we're not going to be able to talk to him or take him out." Perhaps all together, willing to sacrifice their lives, they might have been able to. But with Pollution, Famine, War and Death with him, it was highly unlikely they would even get close enough to slap the antichrist on the wrist. Crowley resisted the urge to drop his head into his hands. Dean snorted.

"There's got to be a way to track him down," said Dean. "A spell, a feeling; something."

Crowley quirked an eyebrow and shared a look with Castiel. At the very least, the two of them could bond over the exasperation over human's endless idiocy.

"Not that I know of," said Castiel with a sigh and the shake of his head. "It's not like we've ever had an antichrist before to test these kinds of things out."

Crowley's lips twitched upwards at that and he snorted. "He's got a point," he said, waving vaguely at the angel. 

"What are you doing now then?" Sam asked him and Crowley's lips pressed together in a tight line.

"I'm not sure," he muttered reluctantly. His eyes flicked towards Castiel once more and then narrowed in consideration. "Can you get Holy water?" He asked. Castiel's head tipped to the side, eyes crinkling in thought.

"Pure?" He asked and Crowley nodded. Castiel let out a sigh. "I could."

Crowley grinned and took a step forwards. "I need some," he stated. "A bottle of it."

"Why'd you need Holy water?" Asked Dean curiously. Crowley gave him a look.

"I'd rather have that for when Hastur gets on my ass about this," he stated sarcastically. 

"And Hastur is..?"

"The Duke of Hell," Castiel commented. "Considered second in command below Beelzebub and Lucifer, of course."

"Not a very nice guy," Crowley hummed lightly. He turned back on Castiel and smiled wide, all Cheshire cat-like. "So, can you get me some?"

The trio seemed to share a look, all discussing telepathically or something as if weighing the pros and cons of giving Crowley Holy water. Eventually, Castiel relented, saying; "I suppose. When for?"

"Preferably this second," snorted Crowley, stuffing his hands into his tight pockets. "As soon as possible." Castiel tipped his head in a minute nod and Crowely's shoulders relaxed a little bit, lowering an inch, tension bleeding out from his tense muscles. 

"We should go out," said Sam, eyes flicking around everyone and landing on Crowley. "Maybe we can go search the news for anything that happens and at the first sight of something, we can go immediately." 

"You got your kit with you?" Inquired Crowley. Dean's lips quirked.

"Always got our kit with us," he replied, and Crowley hummed. He pushed off against the wall, grabbed his sunglasses and then headed to the door. He unlocked it, listened to the heavy footsteps of the hunters and the angel following after him, and then they headed out. Immediately Crowley headed towards his Bentley and Dean whistled in awe.

"That yours?" He asked, shocked and awed, and Crowley couldn't help the smug, proud grin that came upon his lips. He ran his hand along it like a loving caress. 

"All mine, baby," he grinned. "Got her in 1926, had her since. Not a single scratch or a dent." His gaze turned cold behind his sunglasses. "You be the first person to cause her harm, I'll kill you."

Dean held his hands up in defence. "No, she's a beauty." His eyes rolled over the car and Crowley had the urge to cover her from his eyes, for she was his car and his baby and he didn't like the way Dean looked at her, even if it did feed his ego. 

"Damn right she is," he replied. "Can't find a car as good as her. Don't make them the same these days. The best of the best." He patted her hood gently and then looked at a mildly amused Sam and a not-surprised Castiel. When he glanced aside, however, he found a sleek 67' style Chevy Impala. His head bobbed in approval and he understood Dean a little more. "Not bad," he commented, and Dean's grin widened. Dean had first seemed protective of his car when they first rode in it, but Crowley hadn't actually paid much attention to it the first time around.

"You have yours, I've got mine," he hummed, lovingly looking at his own car.

"Can I remind you that the antichrist just got his hellhound?" Sam piped up. Crowley and Dean cleared their throats awkwardly, shuffling on the spot like scolded children.

"Ah, yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, raising his eyebrows. "Where are we going?" He asked.

"I would have offered the library. We can use the computers there to search the news easier. Or do you think there might be, er, prophecies in any books at the bunker?" He aimed the last question to Castiel. The angel pondered over the thought, his eyes distant and looking off into the cloudy sky.

"I believe there is only one book of prophecies that I would trust to truthfully speak about the antichrist," he said. His cool eyes glanced around them all. "And I don't know where we would be able to find it. I believe it would be too late once we had found it. I think our best option is to watch the news like Sam said." He tipped his head in Sam's direction. Sam seemed to deflate slightly at that but he nodded nonetheless. He turned to Crowley.

"You can come in our car, if you want," he offered. Crowley eyed the backseat of the impala and he pursed his lips, set his hands on his sharp hips.

"Sure," he shrugged, and he clambered into the backseat with Castiel. Dean seemed more at ease with him after their brief car-bonding session, having a little more respect for Crowley than he had before. Humans, thought Crowley, were odd things. Instead of proving he was trustworthy, he could simply gain his trust by having a good (amazing) car.  _Queen's I'm In Love With My Car_ began to blare from the radio and Dean jumped, cursing out an obscene string of words, and Crowley smirked to himself. 

Dean pulled the car to a stop outside of the town's small library and all four of them clambered back out and then gravitated towards the free computers. Crowley would not admit that it took him at least the first ten minutes after sitting down to learn how to use said computer; he might have watched technology evolve, he might have a mobile, but he had not used a computer or laptop for ages. Not for years, not after he had gotten addicted to an online game and spent 672 hours straight on it. (It was disgustingly sweet how concerned those 'internet friends' had been for him upon seeing the fact that he had managed to spend three weeks without logging out of his game.) Perhaps the screen had traumatised him and turned him away from technology from that, but he hadn't been online for years since.

_Crowley's character, howev_ _er, had been fully maxed out and at the top possible level of every skill._

Eventually, the demon did get onto the internet and he managed to browse it slowly, his chin on one hand, eyelids fluttering. He was finally managing to relax once more when Sam jolted him from his near-asleep state.

"Guys," he said, sounding thoroughly perplexed. "Check this out."

With a dramatic groan Crowley hauled himself from the spinny chair he had claimed, slinking up to Sam's side. He blinked sleep from his eyes to peer at the screen in front of Sam.

_ALL NUCLEAR POWER PLANTS FAILING GLOBALLY._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You don't understand how much I want to write an interaction between Lucifer and Crowley, by the way. It's been in my head for days. 
> 
> Kept on thinking this chapter would be, like, 3K words. Got really demotivated to write it and then I sat down and wrote a sold 5/6's of it in one sitting; fun fact.
> 
> If you enjoyed, feel free to leave a kudos or any feedback, I greatly appreciate it! <3


	5. Crying How Bright Their Frail Deeds Might Have Danced

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: all titles for this story (so far) are taken from Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night. Good poem.  
> Early part! Enjoy!

"I don't know what you think the name 'antichrist' might entail, but that isn't it."

Crowley stared at the screen from beyond his sunglasses. Finally, he stood back and pushed them further up his nose and once more concealing his serpentine eyes, turning them towards Sam who seemed conflicted.

"I do know," he stated, gesturing at the computer screen, "but what are the odds? You say the antichrist is just now falling into his powers and all of a sudden every single nuclear power plant in the _world_ , by the way, has crashed. Lost all radiation and power completely. Who else is powerful enough to do something like that?" 

Crowley shrugged, throwing his hands out. "I don't know! God?" He knew that it most certainly was not the Almighty doing this, however, but it almost made more sense than the damned antichrist doing good things like this. Crowley shook his head fervently. "No, it isn't the antichrist. And even if it was, it doesn't mean anything. He probably didn't even mean to do it; his powers are lashing out. It doesn't even tell us where he is, which is what we really need." He could feel himself getting more stressed and more worked up about things, his palms hot and clammy and his lungs restricted. He scrubbed his hands down his face, his stubble-covered sharp jaw, and he moaned pitifully, deep and reverberating in his throat.

"We have time," said Sam as if he was consoling a friend, and Crowley glared at him. He stood a little taller, told himself to compose himself, and blew out a long sigh.

"No, we don't. We have days." He turned to Castiel, jabbing a finger at him. "I need that Holy water. Now."

Castiel opened his mouth, a choked noise coming past as he tried to figure out what he to say. "I can't just now."

Crowley pressed his lips together, jaw locking, and he stuffed his hands into his pockets. He closed his eyes and braced himself for a moment. He turned to Sam and nodded his head at the computer. "Does it say anything else is happening?"

Sam exited off the page talking vaguely about the nuclear panic, refreshing the news page. The talk of the nuclear crash was the only thing on the headlines at the moment, with one other page discussing the recent 'miracles'. Sam shook his head. "No, nothing else. Not yet, anyway." He looked around at them, eyes rolling over Crowley and Castiel, and he looked a little desperate as he continued. "Is there at all a way either of you could do something? Being an angel and a demon, after all." He lowered his voice a little, raised his eyebrows. Crowley rocked on his heels and turned to look at Castiel, sharing a look with him.

"I can't go to Heaven or talk to the other angels about this," stated Castiel, expression slightly defensive.

"I can't talk to the demons about it," Crowley added, for if he dared to do that then he would certainly find himself in the pits of Hell again for his punishment. He looked upwards at the ceiling far above his head, the intricate details of its architecture, and he let out another sigh that made his body slouch afterwards much alike a balloon deflating. He resisted the urge to collapse dramatically into a heap on the rough library floor and thump his fists on the wooden slabs and scream up at the sky that this was  _unfair._ She had made it known long ago that She was not fair, despite what She was supposed to be.

Perhaps he ought to chase down Aziraphale and simply run away right now. Head off to Alpha Centauri and tuck themselves away into the furthest corner of its stars, hide in he overlapping folds of space and time and make up the rest of their plan. He turned back to Castiel.

"What do you suppose you'll do?" He asked. He looked over to the Winchester's. "Suppose we don't find the kid and he does go ahead with his whole Armageddon business. Hell and Heaven come on up and down to Earth to battle it out." He knew Castiel picked up on the part he didn't say when his eyes flicked back to the two humans.  _They won't survive it._

"We'll find the antichrist," Dean stated, eyes hard and head lifting an inch in reckless confidence. "We'll find him, and we'll fight to stop him." Sam nodded and, gaze locked with Crowley's, so did Castiel. 

"Alright then," said Crowley, nodded and eyeing the floor between his feet. "I guess that's your mind made up then." He glanced to Castiel. "Alpha Centauri might be safe." He said it a little quieter, enough so that Castiel heard him perfectly clear. The angel raised an eyebrow slightly, eyes distant as he mulled that thought over in his head before he nodded once in acknowledgement.

"Drop me back off at the motel," he requested, "there's nothing else for us to do here."

Sam sighed at that but he nodded, already beginning to log out of the computer along with Dean. "Guess you're right," he muttered, grabbing his leather jacket from the back of the chair. With that, they all began to head back outside and to the impala waiting for them. Crowley clambered into the backseat with Castiel and they drove in silence, not even the radio daring to break the silence. Everyone was tense, deep in their thoughts and their dread for the upcoming few days, still trying to desperately cling onto any hope still left inside of them. Crowley could hardly share that. He might not have hop, but he did have defiance that burned strong in him.

Dean pulled up outside his motel room and they all got out. Crowley just assumed that they had a final thing they wished to discuss in the privacy of his motel room, but his eyes stayed on Dean as he went to the trunk of his car. A few moments later he walked over and he held out a small bottle of burning water. It was not as much as Crowley needed but he recognised it as an offer for until Castiel could procure him more. No one mentioned how Crowley's hand shook as he reached out and took the bottle, muttering a delayed thanks. He half expected simply touching the bottle to burn his hand, but it didn't. Nonetheless, he held it pinched in his fingers and at length from his body, and he led the way up to the motel room. Unlocking it, he shoved the door open and stepped inside, opening his mouth to ask what it was they wanted to talk about when he stopped

Standing in the centre of the bedroom was Hastur and Ligur, dirt beneath their feet and looking thoroughly pleased upon seeing Crowley walking in with two human hunters and an angel. Crowley staggered to a stop, words dying in his throat and coming out instead as a shocked; " _Hastur?"_

The demon grinned mockingly, eying him and then the three behind him. "Who are they, Crowley?" He asked mockingly. Crowley held the bottle of holy water hidden behind his back, his shoulders tense. 

"No one," he blurted intelligently, Hastur gave him a look and the two dukes of Hell stepped forwards.

"We were actually on our way to talk to you about that angel, Aziraphale, but it seems there's even more," he mused, looking at a tense Castiel. Crowley spared them all a glance. Hastur gestured at him, tipping his head towards Ligur, and Ligur stalked forwards. 

"You're coming with us, Crowley," said Hastur, "you've got a lot you need to own up to. Just make this easy for yourself," he urged. Ligur reached out for Crowley and before he could truly think about what he was doing, he pulled out the holy water, twisted off the cap, and threw its contents forwards. It splashed out onto his face and the effects were immediate; skin and flesh began to melt away. His horrid cries echoed loudly in the room and were quickly followed by Hastur's horrified yelling, the demon clamping a hand over his mouth and staggering back. Crowley dropped the little bottle onto the carpet, clattering down next to the pool of Ligur's remains, and Crowley was quick to stuff his hand into his pocket for a drop had spilled down the bottle and rolled down the palm of his hand, leaving in its trail a path of searing fire and pain. He swallowed it down, buried it away, and turned to Hastur.

"I've got more where that came from," he said, taking a step forwards. As if to emphasise the fact he curled his hand into a fist in his pocket as if holding another bottle, and Hastur eyed him suspiciously.

"You just killed another demon, Crowley. Bad enough that you lost the antichrist," he stated, and Crowley grimaced in comparison to Hastur's grin at his discomfort. He slipped forwards, his voice lowered. A murderous grin glinted in his cold eyes. "Your fate will be whispered by mothers in the dark to frighten their young." He didn't need to add the next; "told to take ya straight to the cleaners, pal," for Crowley to understand the very real threat towards him already.

"Wait," he blurted, and he swallowed down nausea. "I didn't think you thought so low of me, Hastur," he said with dramatic pain in his tone. "You think I'd go through the trouble of manipulating those idiots," he gestured to the people behind him, "and do that to poor Ligur if I didn't have to?" He gestured to the grisly remains of the demon, a bubbling, murky puddle on the floor of which Crowley had side stepped around. 

Hastur looked curious, only deciding to entertain him for a moment longer, and Crowley grasped the opportunity. "This, Hastur, all of this," he gestured around and then jabbed his finger in the Duke of Hell's direction. "Is for you. A test, if you will."

"A test, hmm?" Echoed the demon, unamused, and Crowley nodded enthusiastically.

"Yes, a test! I've been so busy, you know, working with the Unholy himself. Had to, uh, keep it on the down low, of course, but it's all falling into plan. I honestly had a hard time not telling you," he said, stepping forwards. "What with the upcoming Armageddon and the Great War, we need someone to lead us into it. And the Unholy decided that it's you, Hastur. He's impressed with your work. He had to test your loyalty, of course, and you've proven yourself!" 

Now, Hastur looked convinced, and Crowley's heart was beating terribly beneath the withering bones of his ribcage, a fast plead to just fall for it. 

"Look, if you don't believe me, that's fine. I'll call him up and you can talk to him yourself, huh?" He offered, eyebrows raised. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and Hastur smirked.

"Do it," he urged, and Crowley hoped his smile was steady as he scrolled through his contacts and then came upon his own house number. He let it ring several times, a tense silence in the room that threatened to suffocate everyone in it. It seemed to convey well enough to the others to bite their tongue and not interfere, even if Castiel seemed to be simply itching to get out his blade and smite the demon in front of them. As it rings and goes quickly to voice mail, a grin spreads Crowley's lips wide.

"Looks like they're busy," he commented, and then he laughed. "So long, sucker!" As if to only aggravate the Duke even further he hissed at him, forked tongue tasting the air in a mocking gesture, and then he disappeared inside the workings of his phone. He could hear Hastur's roar of anger and it only took a handful of seconds before he was quickly following after him, shouting out a multitude of obscene curses and dark threats of gruesome endings just for Crowley. 

Perhaps Crowley should take up travelling via electricity again, for it was an incredibly fast and convenient way to get from one place to the other. For example, ten seconds passed from the time Crowley disappeared into his phone and from when he jumped out into his flat back in London. He spun around, catching himself on his desk and then launching himself to his answerphone to trap Hastur inside of it. 

He allowed himself several long, shaking moments in which he simply eyed the answerphone and held his fists up, waiting for Hastur to pop out. He didn't, however, and Crowley let out a relieved sigh and slumped against his desk, letting out a shaking breath and a triumphant laugh. He hoped Hastur could hear him laughing victoriously. He didn't dwell on it for long, however, as he lifted his injured hand up to eye the damage. It certainly wasn't pretty; a shaky line of charred, bloody flash straight down the palm of his hand and reaching his wrist where the wound grew deeper as the water pooled at that point. He grimaced and cradled it to his chest, swallowing against the nausea simply looking at the ghastly wound had brought. It still burned, a deep throbbing far beneath his skin that made his whole body crawl, wanting to immediately reject the divinity that he had come into contact with. He wouldn't be able to heal it either. Prodding around at it tentatively made his vision grey out and made his knees feel like TV static and it forced him to take a moment to breathe and lean against his desk.

He pushed forwards. He kept his hand to his chest and strolled through his flat, and he was pleased to see the way his plants began to shake upon his sudden appearance. He let his eyes roam over them, traced their leaves with his fingertips and tutted disapprovingly. 

"Aye, you've been slacking since I left," he grumbled, and he turned to point at one plant. A leaf had turned brown and curled inwards of itself and try as it might, the plant could not fix it. Crowley walked up to it, twisted his fist in its leaves, and pulled out a handful. He let the leaves twirl from his hand to the floor like little snowflakes, and with a final glare, he turned to continue through his flat. As much as he had missed London he knew he needed to get back to America ASAP. He grumbled to himself and then began to make his way from his flat using the spare key tucked away, and then down the cold streets of London. It had been raining while he was away, unsurprisingly, and his shoes kicked up puddles on the pavement as he found his way to the nearest payphone on the street. He forked out enough change for a quick call. 

"Who is this?" Sam's voice asked from the other side, and Crowley grunted.

"Move the phone from your face," he requested. Sam cleared his throat.

"What?"

"Move the phone away from your face." He didn't hear another word, however, and so he spared a glance around himself, saw the streets were empty, and he disappeared back through the intricacies of the electricity. A few seconds later and he was staggering out onto the motel room floor, narrowly missing stepping right into Ligur's remains. A hand caught his elbow and held him upright and he forced himself to not rudely yank himself free of Castiel's gentle yet firm grasp.

"Dramatic entrance," Dean commented and Crowley snorted. Castiel let go of him and, with his good hand, Crowley smoothed his clothes down.

"Do it with style," he mumbled absently, his eyes bouncing around the motel room. He regarded Ligur's remains with a wrinkle of his nose and then turned away from it, instead going to the tiny kitchen and rummaging around in the cupboards. He found a dust covered box with a red cross on it and he sat on the ground, legs crossed, first aid kit balanced on his lap. It was a piss poor excuse of a first aid kit; a few alcohol wipes, plasters and pain killers and, luckily, one last roll of thin bandages. 

"Want to explain what that was?" Dean asked when Crowley didn't say anything. The demon simply shrugged.

"That was Hastur. I told you he was a prick." He tipped his head to the bubbling remains of Ligur. "And that  _was_ Ligur. Cunt as well, if you ask me." 

"And you two just... what? Disappeared into your phone?" He asked, gesturing at the mobile laying discarded on the floor from where he'd dropped it. 

"In a way. Hastur shouldn't be a problem; he's currently stuck in my answerphone in London," he said, and he couldn't help but snicker slightly to himself. 

"You got hurt," said Sam, observing Crowley work to rip open one of the wipes with his teeth. He raised his eyebrows, unamused.

"Could'a been worse," he simply responded, because it very well could have been. He was surprised it hadn't been; it was simply pure luck it had only been one drop, or else it might have burnt right through his hand. If he squinted and held his hand a certain way he thought he might have caught a glimpse of solid white. There was a moment of awkward silence before Sam came over, took the alcohol wipe from his teeth, and then proceeded to open it with ease. He took Crowley's wrist and Crowley watched with an unsaid threat as he began to clean out the wound.

"So, Hell knows you've lost the antichrist," he commented conversationally. Crowley snorted, leaning back slightly.

"So they do," he muttered. He tried not to dwell over what Hastur had said. No doubt Beelzebub would soon be on his case too, especially if Hastur didn't make an appearance some time soon with Crowley in tow, ready to send off to the 'cleaners'. It made him shudder to think about. "Well, it was about time, really," he said, then let out a particular hiss as Sam wiped the cloth over the deeper part of the wound. 

"Sorry," muttered the man with a sheepish smile. "Can you not heal these?" He asked curiously. Crowley gave him a look. 

"No. Not Holy water," he told him, holding back a retort on the tip of his tongue. "You know.  _Holy. Blessed._ It's kinda made specifically to do permanent damage to me," he mused sarcastically. He watched Sam move to fold up the wipe and set it aside and then he reached for a little tube that Crowley hadn't noticed in the back of the first aid kit; burn ointment. He eyed it curiously, reading the wrapping, and then he screwed the cap off and began to gently spread some out over the wound.

"Will this even help much?" He asked. Crowley rocked his head side to side.

"Satan knows," he said. "Never tried human medicine stuff before. Maybe." He grimaced and looked away and Sam, again, offered a gentle apology. As he spread the ointment out over the slug-trail of charred skin, Dean left; heading out of the motel room without another word. 

"Didn't know a drop did so much damage," he commented, and Crowley hummed. Sam almost sounded... guilty. As if feeling bad for all the demons he'd used it on before. Crowley wanted to tell him to stop being so ridiculous; a demon was a demon, whether or not you hurt one didn't matter. And plus, if he was guilty it would imply that Sam cared about Crowley's wellbeing, which was ridiculous. 

"Ah, well. Each side's gotta have something, huh? You wouldn't be sorry if you saw what hellfire did to an angel," he pointed out, and Sam grimaced at that. 

"I suppose so," he agreed absently. He picked up the thin roll of bandages and looked warily between it and the burn on Crowley's hand, a frown on his face. It was then that Dean walked back in holding a roll of non-stick gauze. Sam nodded in approval and he caught it as Dean threw it over. "This'll at least keep it from rubbing on anything and getting worse," he told Crowley, as if he was a child that didn't understand basic medicine. He might not be a doctor, but he understood logic, understood human bodies and their natural healing processes. He said none of this, however, and simply let Sam continue to hold his wrist still as he spread the gauze out over the burn, and then he sat back. He started putting everything back in the kit box and then stuffed it back into the cupboard Crowley had pulled it from, and the two men hauled themselves to their feet. 

"Uh, thanks," Crowley mumbled awkwardly, looking at his hand. It still hurt, a steady, pulsating throb that still made him nauseous, made his bones ache and his core recoil away from the wound in abject horror at the Holiness and divinity still lingering in himself from the wound. It felt like a parasite, an illness, making his body feel sluggish and weak and sore, and all he could do to ease it was absolutely nothing. 

Sam waved away his gratitude easily, shrugging. 

"How long do you think we have before Armageddon?" Asked Dean. Crowley let out a sigh.

"A few days at best. The four horsemen will be on their way to meet with one another and then find the antichrist. We... we might possibly be able to track them through that. Pollution levels were falling drastically, right? So where they rise Pollution will be. Hunger will follow after Famine, and senseless violence will follow War. Inexplainable deaths will follow Death."

Sam shared a hopeful look with everyone else, seeming to perk up. He nodded enthusiastically, shifting on the spot. "He's right. If we can keep an eye out for things like that, too, then they might lead us straight to the antichrist," he echoed. He seemed suddenly hit with motivation to continue their search for the antichrist and he turned to the others. "We should get started on searching for any leads like that."

Crowley waved his hand. He sauntered over to his bed and dropped down onto it, stretching his legs out in front of him and slouching. "Not a bad idea," he encouraged. His head tipped slightly towards the door. "Always good to," he waved his hand vaguely, "be a step ahead. Or as many steps on the antichrist's heels as one can be." He shrugged at the attempt he made and leaned back, propping himself up with his good hand. Sam's hand reached up to scratch along his jaw and he turned on his heel to share a glance with Dean.

"Got nothing better to do, eh?" He mused jokingly. He nodded nonetheless, heaving out a sigh and taking a few steps back towards the door. "You coming with?" He asked, turning to Crowley. The demon in question waved his hand dismissively.

"Need to speak to Aziraphale," he said. "Go get a head start. We'll look out too, report back to base and such." 

The trio lingered for a moment longer before simply nodding. Sam offered him a smile. "We'll tell you if we find a lead, yeah?" He said, and Crowley gave him a thumbs up.

"Sound perfect," he drawled, and then he slid back until he was laying along the bed. He heard their footsteps as they left, then heard Dean's impala start up and drive out of the motel car park, and he let out a long, heavy breath. His eyes fluttered closed and he simply melted into the uncomfortable motel bed, and he didn't think he had ever felt so physically drained. Not just due to the Holy water, either. 

He did not want Armageddon. Crowley had never had a penchant for violence, for pain or for suffering or injustice, but that had been his exact downfall in the end - beginning, technically. Nonetheless, Crowley still had yet to truly find the pleasure, the achievement in pain and war. He didn't want to see billions of innocent humans lose their lives because some celestial and infernal beings were bloodthirsty and wanted peace in the only way they could think of; by obliterating any other potential future threat right at the core, wiping out the other side completely. Crowley thought they were so utterly selfish and it was disgusting; where was the justice? How was this the right thing to do? It simply wasn't. There was no logic and no reasoning to the end of everything being Her Great Plan, and Crowley couldn't stand it.

She worked in odd and mysterious ways, that was for certain, and she worked in cruel ways, too. Once upon a time She had been close to them all. He had spoken to Her personally, had the honour of laying his eyes upon Her and hearing Her voice. He might even go as far to say that, once, they had had the human equivalent of discussing life over a pot of tea, if only they didn't have bodies or voices and tea wouldn't exist for many, many more years. She had been nice, then. Proud of Her angels, proud of their creations, all loving and caring. Then, while they began to create the Earth to inhabit humans, She was... simply not. And She had proved, time and time again, that she worked in cruel ways now.

Crowley simply hadn't thought She would ever take it to this extent. It was sickening and terrifying. 

Crowley did want to avert Armageddon and continue to live life peacefully on Earth, running circles around Hell and having lunch with Aziraphale, but the realisation that that life had suddenly been torn out of his hands now hit him, and it hit him hard. 

Even if he did avert Armageddon he would never continue to live life as he had. Hell would be upon him within an instant, and possibly Heaven too, for Heaven just hated Crowley with a personal vengeance. They would both want to see him either in the furthest pit of Hell for all of eternity, or at the hands of the best torturer for eternity. Perhaps they'd make a cage much alike Lucifer's, but one made just to hold Crowley in it, down in the darkest, coldest, untouched corner of Hell for all of eternity. Or perhaps they would simply hold his head down in a tub of Holy water until his skull melted. Demons would want him to be taken care of, Heaven would want him out of the way. Hastur would not stop striving to see him dealt with and nor would Beelzebub, surely. For Aziraphale's own benefit, he would not be able to go near the angel again. It would be too much of a risk to the angel; he would not let Heaven conjure up a reason to punish Aziraphale or, Lord and Satan both forbid, make him Fall. He would not let those selfish, corrupt angels do that to Aziraphale because of him.

There would be no flat in London with trembling plants and old paintings, old statues, nick knacks and sentimentals. He would not see another rotation around the Earth or gaze upon the stars his lips had blown across the wide expanse of empty space. There would be no wine and drunken nights in Aziraphale's bookstore, no more teasing and joking, no more friendship, no more anything. Not for Crowley. Not anymore.

And that's why they had to leave _now_. He reminded himself of that fact and forced himself to stand up, cross the room and throw the door open and then march right down to Aziraphale's motel room. His fists pounded the door demandingly, not stopping for a single second until Aziraphale had thrown open the door, his eyebrows drawn together in both irritation and concern.

"Crowley? What in good Heavens is going on? Is everything alright?" He asked, peering over his shoulder as if expecting to see a hoard of demons chasing him. 

"Let's go," blurted the demon. He realised he hadn't thought about what he would say to Aziraphale. "We can leave, Aziraphale. The antichrist has his hellhound and Hell knows that I don't know where the antichrist is. Let's go."

Aziraphale frowned, lips moving for a moment as he processed this. "Go where, Crowley?" He asked, and Crowley grinned. He threw a hand up to the sky beyond him.

"I was thinking Alpha Centauri. Another solar and planetary system a few light years away. We could go there and be safe, Angel. Safe from Heaven and Hell and Armageddon, and we would have time to think about what to do next. It's perfect!" His lips twitched upwards into a hopeful grin and he had to stop himself from reaching out and physically grabbing Aziraphale and hauling him immediately to the galaxy. Aziraphale didn't share his optimism, however. He did, at the very least, reach out to Crowley's gesturing hand. He caught his wrist in a gentle grasp and pulled it down, inspecting the bandage on his palm.

"You're hurt," he stated, and Crowley's cheeks warmed. He didn't make a move to pull his hand away from Aziraphale however, not when he continued to pull the gauze up slightly to peer at the nasty wound. "What happened, my dear boy?" He asked, looking almost hurt at the fact that Crowley had been hurt. Crowley glanced aside and shrugged nonchalantly, pursing his lips and rocking his weight from one foot to the other.

"Some demons came," he told him, for he could not lie to Aziraphale. (If one overlooked the fact that he had, but that was for Aziraphale's own good. Aziraphale could not know who Crowley was - who he had been - and that was all Crowley would hide from him.) "And Dean, he had a bottle of Holy water. I took it and used it on one of the demons, but a little bit caught me. It doesn't hurt as bad it looks." Perhaps Crowley had lied to Aziraphale more than he would admit, but a little white lie about himself wouldn't hurt him. It was for his own good. 

Aziraphale's gaze softened and he pressed the gauze back down gently. "I'm sorry," he said, as if it were his fault Crowley had gotten hurt. Crowley turned his hand around in his grasp, let his hand linger, and then he took his own hand back to his chest. 

"It isn't your fault, Angel. It doesn't matter; it will heal. Alpha Centauri - that matters. We can go right now, Angel. I've thought it all out and we'll be perfectly safe there!"

Aziraphale's expression was not the one Crowley had expected and wanted. It made his stomach sink like a deadweight. "What is it?" He asked, recoiling ever so slightly.

"Crowley..." Aziraphale sighed and avoided his gaze as if he was guilty. "I can't just drop everything and go. Not when we still have a chance to avert this. Heaven still needs me, Crowley."

That felt like a punch in the gut. "Heaven doesn't need you," Crowley spat as if the simple idea was ridiculous. "Heaven doesn't care about anything other than the end of the world! _I_ need you, Angel, and we need to leave!" 

Aziraphale frowned, possibly insulted, and Crowley didn't entirely care. It was for the greater good -  _their_ greater good - that they hurried up and left already. Heaven would only pull Aziraphale into trouble, get his angel hurt and upset, and Crowley knew Aziraphale better than Heaven did and what Aziraphale deserved. He didn't deserve to be paraded around like Heaven's little soldier. 

"Don't say that, Crowley," he said, wrinkling his nose up. He was shutting him out, not understanding the place Crowley's words came from. Crowley, once again, resisted the urge to reach out and grab him.

"Angel, come on," he whined. "Don't do this to me."

"Crowley, this isn't about you," Aziraphale said. "This is bigger than the both of us. I can't leave this alone now. I'm needed for this." 

Crowley sighed, shaking his head. "No, no, no. Come on." He closed his eyes for a moment, a sigh expelling past his lips. His body felt like it was full of ice, full of lead, heavy and cold and weary. Aziraphale did not look amused. Apolgetic, perhaps, but perhaps Crowley's stubbornness had rubbed off on him over the millennia, for he stood his ground despite Crowley's whining, sure of himself and his decision.

"I am not leaving, Crowley. You can't change my mind."

Crowley's jaw set. "Angel," he said, "please."

Aziraphale truly looked sad, too. If he was angry it would have been easier to deal with; if he had called Crowley a demonic prick, a monster, anything, it would be better than the apologetic and pitiful look on his face.

"Fine," he said, and he stood up straighter. "Fine." A little more forceful. "Stay here, then. Stay here. I'll go, and when I'm out there, Angel, out in the stars, I won't think about Earth or you. Capeesh?" His feet carried him backwards, away from the angel's soft, stubborn, sad, brave face, pulled him away from his angel, and it hurt. But he could not make Aziraphale come with him if he chose to stay here. There was nothing Crowley could do about that. The demon simply had to accept that Aziraphale would rather spend this time fighting bravely and courageously than hiding with Crowley. He would rather risk their memories and a possibility to make more with Crowley, and Crowley had to accept that he was not to Aziraphale what Aziraphale was to him. Aziraphale was his own person beyond Crowley and he was capable of making his own decisions and leading his own life, one without Crowley in it, and Crowley could respect that.

It did not mean that Crowley was no less selfish. That he did not feel utterly furious that Aziraphale would not come with him, so utterly hurt that his friend, his only friend, would not come with him. But he accepted it, and he turned on his heels and ran from the fear and the hurt that threatened to devour him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all liked it, though I feel it was kinda sad, whoops. More to come! If you did like it, I love and appreciate any feedback very much, thank you! <3


	6. Rage, Rage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this is a little shorter than the usual chapters; I wanted the scene it ended on before to start off the next chapter. Speaking of, the next chapter is also the last chapter. I hope that you all have enjoyed reading this fic and my take on it, how I've written it and the plot; thank you for reading!

He could not go to Alpha Centauri.

Well, realistically, he _could_. It was an entirely possible option. He physically could get there and survive there. However, there was no real way Crowley could go to Alpha Centauri without Aziraphale. He came to this realisation as he stood some ways out of the town, his Bentley hidden on a little dirt road into the woods, and he stared up at the cloudy sky far above him. It'd certainly take him a while to get there, but that meant it would also take Heaven and Hell a while to get there, too. But he simply could not bring himself to leave without Aziraphale. Try as he might, it simply made him feel sick and like an utter prick, and so he growled up at the sky, kicked a rock with enough force that it splintered the tree's bark that it collided with. 

"Is this another one of Your little tests?" He hissed up to the impassive sky. His hands curled into tight fists by his side and he shook with anger. "Trying to see how I'll go? Huh? _Answer me_!" He did not receive an answer, unsurprisingly, and he yelled with rage and kicked another stone that left a smoking, clean hole right through a tree trunk. The sky continued to stare down at him impassively, uncaring, and the clouds continued to crawl along the blue expanse, not sparing Crowley a single glance. She did not come down and show Herself, correct Her mistakes and take him back. Nothing of the sort happened. Crowley exhaled a long, heavy breath, one that jarred his chest and his lungs, and then he stalked back into his car. The radio didn't even dare to play a song while he was in such a bitter mood. He had to force his hands to relax on the driving wheel for fear of leaving hand-shaped dents in the leather for the drive back. It would have perhaps only taken half of an hour had he gone straight there, but with the need to relax and compose himself he continued down the long, winding road out of the town as fast as his car could possibly go. Instead, he arrived back into Lebanon after two hours. 

He would come to regret that detour very quickly.

Smoke billowed in the air, drifting up from the motel he was staying at. His car left tire marks on the ground as he skidded to a halt in front of the fire trucks and firefighters. Crowley threw his door open, staggering out of his car and looking at the blaze at one end of the motel. The end of which Aziraphale had been staying in. The fire had blown the windows out, tendrils rising high into the gloomy, mocking, silent sky, and smoke and ash burned at his eyes and his throat. His legs felt like stone as he stepped closer, his mouth like a desert. It was rising straight from Aziraphale's room, steadily making its way down to devour the entire block of rooms. With a simple thought, the firefighters didn't spare him a single glance. His feet hurried with sudden terror and guilt, and he threw the door open.

"Aziraphale!" He called, and he narrowly missed a curtain caught aflame wrapping around his arm. The motel room was small, small enough for him to see well enough that Aziraphale nor his remains were not anywhere nearby, but it didn't stop him from yelling for the angel. "Aziraphale! Come out!" 

He was not in the bathroom, either, for that too was charred and aflame. Crowley did not need to breathe, but he drew breath in nonetheless, ash and soot and smoke burning into his lungs, down his esophagus and made him gag. His eyes teared up behind his glasses and his hand steadied himself against a wall. 

Everything was on fire. Aziraphale must have been busy before he had been attacked for remnants of books were everywhere; covering his bed and the table and the floor. Their pages withered in on themselves, ancient knowledge burning away. He knew Aziraphale would have cried upon seeing what was happening to his beloved books. Save for one. One book, dangerously close to a taunting flame, had yet to be fully burnt away. Crowley's heart leaped into his throat, overcome with the sudden need to have that book, to save that, and he lunged for it.

A jet of water streamed in through the remaining shards of glass in the front window and it barreled straight into him, knocking him flat onto his back and sending his glasses scattering across the floor, twisted and crushed. Crowley's head thudded down onto the charred floor and his heart twisted.

Someone had broken into Azriphale's room, and they had set it alight. They had attacked his angel and they had completely killed him. Aziraphale was  _dead._ There was no coming back for angels or demons, no after life; Aziraphale had been wiped out of existence completely and irreversibly.

A sound, animal-like and painful, tore past his lips and he hauled himself onto his feet. The room burned around him.

" _Aziraphale!"_ He cried, his fingers clawed at his chest. The book. Like some innate desire, Crowley launched for the book, saving it from the depths of unforgiving flames and holding it to his chest as if this one object was enough to bring Aziraphale back. 

Crowley knew he shouldn't have left. He had left and someone had killed Aziraphale, his brave, foolish angel, and it was Crowley's fault. He wasn't there to stop it and he couldn't convince Aziraphale to leave. He had left on bitter words, spat and stomped on their friendship. Had Crowley ever told him how he appreciated the angel? How much he enjoyed his company? Had he ever actually told the angel he liked him? 

No, he didn't think he had. He never would be able to.

Crowley left. His feet carried him out of the motel room before it could collapse in on him and burn this last shred of Aziraphale that was cradled in Crowley's hands, and he went straight back to his Bentley. The flames hardly ceased; they crawled up the sky as if trying to reach the Heavens, try to burn them down, and Crowley wished they would. Oh, how he wished they would reach the stars and simply devour everything in their way like they had enveloped Aziraphale. 

Crowley, working on autopilot, drove. The book weighed heavily on his lap, more than a simple book should, and he could hardly feel his fingers as they found his pile of spare glasses and shoved them up his face, hiding his demonic, bloodshot eyes, and he continued to drive.

He returned to what he knew best. There was a bar in the town and Crowley strode into it as if he owned the place, dragging ash from his shoes and his suit, and Aziraphale's book slammed down onto a table and was followed shortly by a glass of whiskey which emptied down his throat.

Aziraphale would tut disapprovingly if he was around to do so. He would tell Crowley to leave and if anything, go to a nice restaurant, buy some sushi, and drink a glass of champagne instead. But instead he was not here to do so, and so Crowley would drink as much as he pleased until it all blended together in an unpleasant blur. The world spun each time he turned his head and the one time he tried to stand his body protested thoroughly, his knees disappearing and causing him to fall back into the uncomfortable chair. He slumped into it, legs splayed out beneath the table.

"Sssix thousssand yearsss," he hissed. A bottle of raspberry vodka was clasped in his hands, held to his chest in a mock embrace. "We were bessst friendsss. I never told him that! They - they killed him. The angelsss, I bet. I bet it'sss the angelsss - fucking fair thingsss, my asssss." He scoffed bitterly, slouching onto the table. He hiccuped and then sniffled heavily, reaching one hand up under his sunglasses to wipe his wet eyes. The other people in the bar had taken to ignoring him now.

Crowley did not care what the humans thought of him anyway. They did not understand what he was going through; couldn't wrap their feeble human minds around six thousand years of grief. Crowley remembered each encounter he and Aziraphale had had in those millennia, could remember the first one and how their relationship had built up slowly. Aziraphale had grown on Crowley quicker than Crowley had grown on Aziraphale, he suspected; for a fallen angel could appreciate an angel more than an angel could appreciate a demon. Crowley understood Heaven's mentality as well as Hell's, while Aziraphale had only his superiors in Heaven to go off of in regards of demons, Earth, humans, of rules and regimes. Aziraphale was wary around Crowley to begin with, all suspicious glances, careful words,  _you cannot question The Almighty, Crawly._ And then they came to the realisation that, well, they were both living deadbeat lives, weaving around their superiors, they kept on bumping into one another; they could, dare he say it, help one another out. A favour here and there, and eventually, some company. A distraction from boredom, a mutual understanding of everything beyond humanity. The phrase  _opposites attract_ must be true for, despite their many differences, they got along well. They held interesting, long conversations, and Aziraphale lightened up around him, relaxed. They joked about Heaven and Hell and Crowley tried to do his best to lighten up Aziraphale's life of strict rules and bone dryness that came with Heaven these days. 

Then it wasn't simple favours. It became less of a  _well, it wouldn't hurt; a simple favour between two human-shaped beings and nothing more, no feelings, nothing more than easing their lives._ Rather, it became doing favours for one another because they cared about one another. They sought one another out not because they wanted them to check out a church in Italy or a war zone in Siberia, but because they enjoyed each others company. Because they liked one another. Because Crowley realised that maybe there was one angel that was kind and caring and encompassed the love angels were supposed to. Perhaps Aziraphale simply saw Crowley as more than some foul beast from the pits of Hell, saw Crowley as what he once was, what he is and what he could be. He could see past the charred wings and damned soul, for just as Aziraphale's pristine wings and divinity didn't define him as an 'angel', Crowley's cursed soul and sinful nature didn't define him as a 'demon'. 

After The Fall, Aziraphale was the first being to offer him something. Not necessarily salvation, as such. Not a way back to Heaven and divinity, no, but acceptance and love either way. He gave him a chance, an opportunity to be more than the reject Heaven made of him, the demon Hell wanted to mould him into. Told him without words that he didn't have to be either. And Aziraphale didn't even know who Crowley was. He assumed Crowley to be nothing more than a regular, perhaps slightly higher-ranked spawn of Hell, and he nonetheless gave him a chance. Perhaps that was what really drew Crowley to him, or perhaps it was that same innocent curiosity about the universe he had in his eyes that Crowley once had too, back in the Beginning. Perhaps it was that overwhelming love he simply radiated, or his naivety. His purity, the lack of corruption, or his good humour. He couldn't be sure, but he had caught Crowley's eye and not lost it. Hereditary enemies be damned, Crowley would fight tooth and nail for the angel.

He would have, had he been there to do so.  

"I told him - I told him, we ssshould run away. Then I _left_ , and they _killed_ him. They _killed my Angel_!" His hand closed around the neck of his bottle tightly, nails leaving light scratches on the glass, and then he raised it to his lips. He almost spilled it all over himself, startling as his phone suddenly rang, loud and clear. He fumbled to pull it out of his phone, blinking blearily at it, and he answered and held it to his ear.

"Crowley, we think we've got a lead," said Sam enthusiastically. Crowley snorted.

"What'sss it matter?" He hissed miserably. "Good - good for you. It doesssn't matter; we can't ssstop it."

"Uh... are you - are you okay?" He asked. Crowley laughed although it came out more like a sob.

" _I'm_ fine," he moaned. " _I_ am. _Aziraphale_ , he - he isssn't. You know, I - I helped him. For sssix thousssand yearsss. We helped each other. He wasss my friend. My _bessst_ _friend_. I never told him that." 

"Crowley, are you drunk?" 

"Ssso what?" He snapped. He glanced over when he felt eyes on him and he hissed, glaring murderously at the person sitting by the bar. "What you looking at? Huh?" The man, thankfully, simply muttered about drunkards and turned in his seat to continue sipping his beer slowly. There was a sigh on the other end of the line.

"Where are you?" Asked Sam. "We'll come." 

"Doesssn't fucking matter," Crowley moaned. He sniffled, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. "Antichrissst will kill usss all and it doesssn't matter."

"We'll be fifteen minutes, Crowley," said Sam, brushing over Crowley's sniffling. Crowley simply responded by taking another swig of the liquor in his hand, and when he heard the phone flat line as Sam hung up on him he dropped his phone onto the table. He didn't want to see them, for they'd all be dead shortly as well because Crowley had let the antichrist out of his sight and now he couldn't stop him from killing everyone. Not only was Aziraphale's death on his hands but so were the deaths of seven billion innocent humans. 

"Isss - is this my punishment?" He asked, eyes looking to the rolling clouds beyond the window to his right. "You want me to - to watch everyone die? Becaussse I was never good enough for You?" His fist thumped onto the table and he rocked slightly; body swaying side to side, his feet bouncing anxiously on the floor, heels tap tap tapping. He felt unbelievably heavy; his shoulders slumping down, his chest full of water that threatened to drown him, his heart tied down with blessed iron. His head contrasted his body; murky, distant, disconnected from his body and reality. It felt as if he was wading through a swamp, thick water reaching up to his torso, mud sucking his legs into place, and it was exhausting to work with. So he didn't. 

He was half convinced he was hallucinating because of it. Perhaps he was too drunk or too tired, too stressed, because this wasn't real. Aziraphale was not sitting across from him, scrutinising Crowley, transparent and ghostly. Nonetheless, the fake-Aziraphale leaned forwards as Crowley shakily regarded him. 

"Can you see me? Crowley?" He asked, and Crowley's face scrunched up, lips pulling back from his teeth. He raised one hand to pull his glasses slightly down his nose to get a better look. He didn't disappear from view, sitting in the seat as if he wasn't transparent and wavering, his voice sounding detached and unreal. No one else seemed to see or hear him.

"Az - Aziraphale?" He whimpered, his voice shaking and uncertain. His eyebrows drew together in both disbelief and confusion. Maybe  _this_ was his punishment; Aziraphale's ghost, or a hallucination of his ghost, would haunt him for the rest of eternity. Follow him into the depths of Hell and taunt him throughout his punishment, tell him how he deserved this for letting Aziraphale die. 

"Oh, good, you can," said the angel with a small smile. "I've gotten myself in a bit of a... pickle."

Crowley laughed sadly. He slumped further on the table, pressing his cheek against his bottle of liquor. His lips moved over incoherent, whimpered sounds as he tried to figure out what to say and failed miserably at it. Eventually, he settled on a solid; "hnn, bu-but you're... eeh, you're dead." Heavy breaths fell past his lips and his nose as he tried not to let them fall into full fledged sobs. His eyes closed tightly, avoiding Aziraphale's soft features. The angel was dead, entirely dead, irreversibly dead, and it was because of him.

"Ah, no, not quite," insisted Aziraphale, leaning closer to him over the table. "Not dead as much as... well, I went and got myself discorporated. But I am very much alive, Crowley." His eyebrows furrowed as he regarded Crowley, then his eyes softened. "I suppose it may have looked like that once you couldn't find me," he murmured. Crowley sighed heavily, air chugging out of his throat like a struggling steam train, heavy and unsteady. He nodded vigorously, his hot cheek rubbing cool glass. Soot and ash still caked the creases of his suit and the wrinkles in his skin, his eyes and throat still sore from the bitter smoke. 

Crowley clung onto what Aziraphale said, however. Clung to  _yes, only discorporated. Not dead, not dead, not dead._ Behind his sunglasses, his eyes watered. His nose sniffled again and he wiped it along the back of his hand, then coughed around the lump in his throat. "Discorporated?" He echoed. Aziraphale smiled, sheepish and tight lipped.

"Only discorporated, my dear. I accidentally sent myself up to Heaven before I was ready, and it cost me my body. Unfortunately. But that is a matter for another time; I need you to do something for me. My books - I have one specific book that I need you to go get from my room back in the motel."

Crowley's heart twisted something fierce and he almost started crying all over again. He keened, dug his fingers into the last remaining book on his lap. "Ah... Angel, your room," he murmured, as if he was mourning the room and the fire. "It burnt down. All your books you brought; they - they're gone. I'm sorry." He shook his head and looked down shamefully, guiltily. He braved a glance up to look at Aziraphale. His eyes were downcast, narrowed slightly, pinched at the corners and looking distant. His lips turned downwards and Crowley hurried to try and fix it.

"But! But, but, but, I did get this -" He fumbled to put his liquor down without spilling or smashing it in favour to lift the last book he had up, shoving it towards Aziraphale. His entire face lit up, all traces of sadness and grief for his books melting away, replaced by a grin. 

"That's the book I need!" He blurted. "That's the one!" 

Crowley's own lips turned into a hopeful smile, his mood lifting up from Aziraphale's sheer joy at seeing the book he had saved. "What - what'd'you need me to do, Angel?"

"Well," said Aziraphale, and then he began to explain.

He left just as Sam, Dean and Castiel arrived. He had explained thoroughly what needed to be done; explained the prophecies in the book, explained the family he had phoned, explained how the book detailed where Armageddon would begin. He had left with the promise that he would meet Crowley there, for he needed to find someway to get a body or he'd be no use. He'd relaxed at the prospect of leaving Crowley upon seeing he wasn't alone, too, and he offered Castiel a smile before he disappeared. Castiel looked amusingly shocked as if he had no idea what to make of it, but Sam and Dean were already approaching Crowley's side. Crowley had completely forgotten about them.

Sam took the lead, sliding into the seat Aziraphale had only just vacated. He regarded the empty bottles on the table with a grimace and then leaned on the table, raising his eyebrows and offering a soft smile. "Hey, Crowley," he said. His hands clasped together. "How are you?"

"We need to go," blurted the demon, looking over them all. He flattened his hands out on the table. "We - there's stuff we gotta do. We need to talk," he told them, and then he rose to his feet. Immediately, the world began to pitch forwards. Luckily for him, Dean was there. He shot out with impressive reflexes, catching Crowley before he could crash onto the table. 

"Woah there, buddy," he said, surprisingly gentle for a man such as Dean, "what you need is some water and sleep."

Crowley waved him off. He staggered away from his chair, almost tipping it over but, once more, Dean threw out a hand to catch it and set it out of Crowley's way. "No, no, no. We've gotta go - like, now," he insisted. He snatched Aziraphale's book from the table and held it up. Castiel's eyes blew wide. Crowley's finger prodded the singed cover. "This - it's a book of proph-prophecies. Says where the antichrist and the, um, the horsemen are going to... commence Armaggedon, I guess. We know! We know where he is! We need to go - Angel's gonna meet us there."

Castiel reached out for the book and Crowley held it to his chest protectively, regarding him with a dramatically suspicious expression. Eventually, he handed it over, turning to Sam who had stepped closer. "Crowley... you said that Aziraphale died," he told him, and Crowley's stomach twisted. 

"I thought he did," he admitted, voice weak. "His room... all burned. His books; burned. And he wasn't there and I thought -" he trailed off with a heavy sigh, his arms wrapping around himself. He took in a breath, steadied himself, lifted his head. "He's not. He got, er, discorporated. He's fine. He just needs to find a body." He waved a hand dismissively and took an unbalanced step towards the door. Dean caught his elbow and shared a look with the other two.

"It's true," uttered Castiel. "Both these prophecies and Aziraphale. Discorporated - he was... ejected from his body, you might say, and his body ceased to exist without him. His spirit was here, however. You would not have been able to see him. I did. I..." his gaze turned to the book held gently in his hands. "I believe we should do as Crowley suggests." 

"While I'm all about saving the world," Dean said, "he's... out of it. Wasted. With the birds." Crowley glared at him, yanked his elbow free of his grasp, and then he stumbled. He caught himself on the table and muttered an obscenity, and continued to the door with Sam following him, hands hovering around him, hesitant and awkward. 

"Fuck it. I'll sssober on the way, but we need to - to go," he pressed, waving vigorously to the door. "I'll go by myself." He jabbed a finger at the book. "It's some, uh... army base, or something. You can find it yourself." Crowley staggered towards the door, his knees like jelly, head light like Heaven. However, with each step he took, the bottles that sat on the table began to refill inch by inch and Crowley began to rapidly regain his balance, his coherency and rational thinking. By the time he stepped out onto the cool streets, it was as if he hadn't had a single shot. 

The trio inside hurried after him, footsteps landing heavy on the pavement.

"You're not going alone," Dean said, confident and self assured. Crowley whirled on his heels, his hands settling on his hips, and he raised his eyebrows.

"Well, I didn't say you couldn't come," he shrugged. He tried to ignore the embarrassment that came with the fact that they had witnessed him drunk and sobbing over a not-death, but it was rightfully earned; he had believed with his whole being that Aziraphale had been mercilessly murdered, perhaps even by his own kind. Had thought that Michael had struck him down, painful and ruthless as she always had. Perhaps even God had. The thought, too, that Aziraphale hadn't died but rather been suddenly _rejected_ , had _Fallen_ , had occurred to him, and that had been a horrifying thought and he'd completely refused to acknowledge it. He would never forgive himself should he see Aziraphale on Armageddon's battlefield, wings burnt and black, skin ashen and ocean eyes turned into an endless abyss. 

Dean hesitated a moment before awkwardly saying; "good," with an unnecessary amount of confidence forced into the single word. He pointed at his Impala. "Get in."

Crowley raised an eyebrow and pointed at his Bentley. "If this is the last time I'm driving, I'm driving my baby," he stated. Dean eyed his Impala protectively, seeming to realise this might very well be the last time he ever got to sit behind her wheel, and the two men took a moment of silence to hold their cars in their thoughts, say a little prayer for their beloved, brave vehicles. Sam and Castiel stood awkwardly, as people third wheeling their teenage friends on a date who had disappeared into a bedroom and had yet to return might. 

"I'll lead," said Crowley finally, and he glided over to his Bentley. His hand ran over her side in a loving caress and then settled over the handle. Not a single scratch in all her time. He turned to regard the trio, his face suddenly falling seriously. "As long as you know what you're getting into. We might not even make it there," he stated. "Four horsemen of the apocalypse working with the antichrist and his hellhound. I'm not sure if it's even possible for humans to... to be near that kind of power," he admitted with a regretful shake of his head. Castiel bore a similar expression, his eyes glued onto the ground.

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. They seemed to be able to hold a conversation within a second simply in their eyes, in the way Dean lifted his head and in the way Sam set his jaw, scuffed his foot on the ground and swallowed. 

"We ain't going without a fight," announced Dean. 

"We'll be there," said Sam. 

Crowley admired the fire that burned in the two humans, and it rose an old sense of pride in him for humanity that he honestly hadn't felt in too long. His lips twitched Heavenwards.

"Good," he replied. He opened his car and slid inside. He watched them beyond his sunglasses and then nodded his head. "No time to dally, now. There's a world to save."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said; apologies for this being a little shorter, as I wanted to include the drive there in the next chapter. The next chapter is indeed the last chapter, but I am fairly certain I will write a sequel following it; would people be interested in it? I've had a lot of ideas for it that I'm excited to write.  
> Anywho; any feedback, be it a kudos or a comment, is always greatly appreciated; thank you all for reading and I hope you've enjoyed this!


	7. Grave Men, Near Death, Who See With Blinding Sight (Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had thought of other places that the whole Armageddon thing could take place in, as I didn't want this to be basically a transcript of the show. Considered doing it in a graveyard, but eventually I settled with the fact that the whole nuclear missile thing was pretty important, so I kept it with the airbase.
> 
> I was scared of this part being too short, now I'm worried it's too long whoops. Can I get a wahoo?

Crowley led the way out of town. 

There was a fairly long way to go and his nerves were simply singing; every anxiety, every doubt, every fear jumping to life. His hands were tight around the driving wheel, his teeth grinding against one another. His care seemed to only taunt him further,  _Under Pressure_ blaring out from his speakers like a sarcastic, mocking reminder of the severity of the situation. It mocked him, undermined the situation by taunting him in a catchy  _tune._ But he did so love Queen and he couldn't be entirely mad about it.

Glancing in the rear view mirror, he caught sight of the familiar Impala following closely behind him. They were both pushing far past the speed limit, though still not as fast as Crowley wished. He forced himself to not go at an impossibly fast pace just to keep the humans behind him more calm. Plus, he had a feeling he wouldn't need to worry about the antichrist or any of the four horsemen of the apocalypse should he make Dean burn out his Impala. He could make out the human's face, his jaw set and eyes steely, closely following Crowley's lead down the currently-empty road. Sam sat in the passenger's seat, tense and looking at the prophecies book he had given off to Castiel against his better judgement. Castiel sat right in the middle of the backseat, and despite the fact they were both in different cars and distant, he managed to catch Crowley's eyes in his mirror. They stared at one another for several long moments before Crowley had to jerk the wheel when the road turned a corner, narrowly avoiding driving right off of it. He grunted out a curse, breathing out a steady sigh, and then he turned his gaze forwards once more. 

He did not know what he would find once he was there. An eleven year old with blood red eyes, simply glowing with power. Four horsemen that would be joining their powers to start this apocalypse. If he turned the radio on he might hear about the sudden famine striking countries; crops shrivelling and dying, farm animals spontaneously dying. He might hear about the rocketing pollution levels, or the rocketing rates of violence. How things had been going well recently; guns and nuclear plants were no longer worker like some miracle for peace, and now the world seemed to be simply dying, the worst of the worst coming for them. But Crowley did not turn on his radio, instead settling on toying with his lip and willing his car even faster.

Would Aziraphale be there already? He had gone to find a suitable body after being discorporated. Bodies didn't necessarily matter to an angel or a demon; they could change their appearance at will, could hop from body to body if they were discorporated permanently from their original given form. Crowley had once spent a decade as a woman simply for the fun of changing things up a bit until he decided he favoured the masculine-inclined form he had originally been dealt. He would recognise Aziraphale immediately either way, but he had gotten used to the soft blonde man that he had been. It would be odd to see something else. 

Would the place be encircled in hellfire? Would corpses litter the streets as they got closer? Perhaps he would survive if only for the fact that he was supposed to be on Hell's side, or had word from Hell about his supposed 'traitorous acts' spread to the antichrist and horsemen already? He didn't know and he couldn't even begin to imagine it. Would the sky split open and rain down some fucked up form of hell rain? Would fire fall from the sky? Would Heaven and Hell be gathered, staring one another down already? 

Would he exit the car, turn to meet Sam, Dean and Castiel only to come to realise that Sam and Dean had been killed on the way here, human bodies so frail and weak. It would be him, Aziraphale and Castiel against the four horsemen of the apocalypse and the antichrist and his hellhound. The odds did not sound as if they were in their favour. 

Crowley turned his music up. His head dipped back to rest against the headrest of his seat and, for no more than a second did he let his eyes close.

It was enough, however.

"Crowley," said Hastur, seeming to simply appear out of nowhere. Crowley startled, eyes snapping open and hands struggling not to jerk the steering wheel. He turned to look at the Duke, trying to figure out how he got free. Hastur did not offer an explanation and Crowley did not ask. 

"You never fail to impress," Crowley commented instead. His jaw locked, his eyes burning into the road rather than sparing a glance back at the demon. Hastur hummed. He made himself comfortable in his car, shifting in the seat and no doubt leaving dirt and the thick smell of sulphur embedded into the leather. He drummed his fingers along the car, left a smudge on the window and then glanced at the accompanying trio in the rear view mirror. 

"Taking your little pets straight to Armageddon, huh?" He laughed, grating and bitter and rough. "You know, you held so much potential in the beginning. Back when you first came down to us. Created the first original sin and everything. Then you got  _soft."_ He shook his head in disgust. "I said we should'a left you in the pits for longer. Angels like you need longer down there. Didn't break ya enough, I think." He pursed his lips thoughtfully and Crowley spared him a glance. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles white, shoulders tense. Hastur's hand came up and towards his face and he held himself deadly still. The Duke of Hell peeled his sunglasses off, rolled them between his hands, and then he opened the car window and threw them out. "One might think you wanted to be a human with how much you try to blend in like one."

"Humans these days don't care if you call yourself a God," Crowley responded, "it'd be pretty embarrassing if I got myself exorcised by a human." He swallowed. In the mirror, he saw the Impala's lights flash. A subtle way of Dean asking if he was okay. Hastur laughed.

"Got them all worried about ya," he snorted, rolling his eyes. Crowley glared at the bend in the road ahead of him. 

"Surprised you can recognise care," he muttered bitterly. Hastur laughed.

"You're a demon, Crowley. Demon's don't get care, or friends. You don't stick around on Earth for the food and the wine." His head shook, anger lacing his features. "What kind of demon are you?" His lips curled away from his teeth in a grossed out sneer. "Make this easier for yourself and come with me. You know you want to."

Crowley hummed, high pitched and sarcastic. "I'm not entirely sure that I do, you know."

Hastur rolled his eyes with exasperation. He huffed out a breath, eying Crowley. His eyes turned forwards sharply however, when Crowley suddenly slammed on the breaks.

He stopped just in time to see the traffic jam ahead of him, cars stuck metres in front of him, and he just managed to slam on his breaks, hardly avoiding throwing himself out of the windscreen had it not been for his sturdy seatbelt. Dean had been paying more attention for he had slowed down already. In the rear view mirror he saw Dean wave his hand in a questioning gesture at him. Crowley ignored it. Instead, he sat up in his seat, peering out over the many cars in a never ending stream ahead of him.

It seemed as if there had been an accident upon first glance. Smoke rose into the sky like long tendrils, dancing like cobras, and turning the sky into a dark, gothic horror. The flames, however, were a different thing entirely. They seemed to be as tall as Big Ben back in London, scorching the sky, an impenetrable wall blocking Crowley from his goal. The fire stretched out as far as the eye could see, utterly no end or break in sight, and it had caused a mighty traffic jam. There were a few cop cars around, trying to keep everyone calm and failing. Beside him, Hastur laughed.

"Looks like everything's getting started," he mused. He sounded giddy with sick excitement, a twisted grin on his lips. The fire reflected in his eyes, casting a dark glow across Hastur's pale features. Crowley grit his teeth together. His mind raced with thoughts; what he should do now. He couldn't simply throw in the towel and wander back into Hell to receive whatever painful punishment awaited him. He couldn't make his way to the airbase however. The wall of fire would make sure of that.

He could not, however, leave Aziraphale to face the antichrist alone. He could not leave Aziraphale, in whatever new body he had found for himself, to fend off Armageddon and face utter obliteration by himself.

Dean's car lights flashed again and his phone vibrated in his pockets. Hastur smiled and said; "answer it, then. It'll be that last time ya get to talk to your pets, after all." 

Crowley did. He pulled his phone out and answered, holding it up to his ear.

"What's going on in there, man?" Asked Dean, stressed and irritated. 

"Nothing to worry about," replied Crowley as lightly as he could. He spared a glance at the smirking demon beside him. "Just a chat."

Dean scoffed. "What now?" He asked. "We can't get through the fire. It doesn't look like it ends, either."

"Looks like you're stuck," taunted Hastur. Crowley eyed him and he continued. "Couldn't outrun us forever. You know," he said, and his voice raised in volume as he shuffled again in the seat, getting too comfortable. "I've been waiting for this for a long time. Never actually believed you when you came into office, claiming you did this, did that. Spanish inquisition? Hitler? When you couldn't even kill a human yourself? I'll miss your humour, I guess. But I've been waiting for this for a long time."

Crowley pursed his lips and let out a huff of breath. "We can't go around it," he agreed with Dean, purposefully ignoring Hastur for the moment. "Fuck it." He hung up his phone and threw it into the backseat. He saw Dean wave his hand in irritation and then he began to reverse. He pulled around the other cars on the road and into the empty emergency lane. The Impala followed behind, Sam and Dean bickering, and Crowley simply hoped Castiel would deal with them. He pressed his foot harder onto the gas.

"What - what are you doing?" Hastur hissed, his eyes flickering between the road ahead, the towering fire, and Crowley. "You can't possibly try and get through that!"

The only response Crowley gave him was a hiss exhaled between his teeth. His shoulders were high and tense, his heart absolutely hammering beneath his ribcage. His serpentine eyes were wide and locked on the rapidly approaching wall of fire and his nails dug into the steering wheel beneath his tight grip. In the passengers seat, Hastur was pressing himself back against it, his smug façade crumbling rapidly.

"You'll kill us both!" He yelled.  _Killer Queen_ threatened to drown him out. He looked as if he couldn't believe what Crowley was about to do and really, Crowley couldn't believe it either. But he decided that he was either going to die a long and painful death in the deepest pit of Hell, at the hands of the antichrist, or in the flames ahead of him. He might as well  _try._

"Stop it! What in the nine circles of Hell are you doing, you -  _stop!"_

Crowley did not stop. He pushed fully down on the gas and sped past the stationary cars around them, and he felt the heat from the fire increase. Before he knew it, the flames were devouring him and his car, pressing in on every side and licking up the windows. The heat was unbearably, burning straight through his car and to him. He couldn't see anything but the intricacies of the dancing flames. Hastur was yelling curses and clawing at the door, at the seat, at Crowley, until he slowly did not any more. The flames devoured Hastur, melting the Duke of Hell to absolutely nothing, and they taunted Crowley; danced across his suit, tickled his skin. Crowley paid no mind to it. 

Aziraphale was on the other side of the fire. Aziraphale was out there, heading towards the antichrist, and Crowley simply had to be there. He could not leave Aziraphale alone in this again; it was pure luck that he hadn't actually gotten himself killed, and Crowley wasn't about to let that change. Presently, Crowley was fine; a little bit of fire could hardly hurt him. He was fine, he would be fine. He'd emerge from the other end of the fire completely unscathed (save for the ash and soot that was caking his skin now, turning him a dull, sickly, dirty grey) and he would make his way to Aziraphale's side and they would fight the horsemen and the antichrist and they would be  _fine_. They would go out for lunch - a picnic, perhaps - and then back to Aziraphale's bookshop for a glass or two (or three) of wine, and Aziraphale would tuck him in with a blanket on his couch and he would say  _sleep well, dear boy._

His car shot out of the wall of flames, speeding past the cars stuck on the other side and past a cop car. He caught their curious gaze as he passed and he offered a wave to them, if only to enjoy their confusion. His car trailed flames behind it, a painful amount of smoke emanating from his beloved Bentley. He tried not to think about it. His car would be fine - as fine as he was. He tried to ignore the smell of burnt leather and thick soot. Behind him, an Impala shot out of the flames; unburnt, completely fine, with a slightly strained looking Castiel in the backseat, looking certainly not amused. Sam and Dean looked panicky, and fairly so. But not a single plume of smoke came from their car, thanks to the angel in the backseat. Crowley let out a small, unhinged laugh, and he continued to drive.

It was as he continued to drive that the situation seemed to gain more gravity on the demon. He might be out of immediate danger at the moment - no longer being drowned in fire - but his Bentley was surely damaged. His lungs itched with soot and smoke, his eyes stinging from it too, and as adrenaline wore off of him, he found himself extremely weary. It had been a long day; from yelling at God and giving up on going to Alpha Centauri, finding out Aziraphale had 'died' and drinking away his grief, to driving through fire to get to the antichrist. He was weary, tired right down to his heavy bones. His heart, too, felt so full and heavy, utterly stomped on and wrung out. 

He did not want to fight. He did not want to look death in the eyes; didn't want to face the antichrist and the horsemen. He did not want to be thrust into a war against Heaven. He was selfish and he did not want to die, either. He wanted to go home. There were things he had yet to do, things he had yet to see, words he had yet to say and emotions that he needed to sort through and come to face. 

What kind of a demon was scared to fight? Scared of Death? 

He could not hide what he felt, either. His exhaustion and trepidation were clear in the creases of his face beneath all of that soot, which contrasted the ivory paleness of his skin. He did indeed look very worn out; very tired and very scared. 

Nonetheless, he did not stop driving. He did not feel the same burning intensity as he drove, fire streaking behind him. The urgency and determination had stepped aside for the anxiety and fear now, and he drove a little reluctantly. The thought of Aziraphale standing up against the antichrist by himself, so foolish and brave, spurred him on, made him press harder on the gas. 

His phone rang multiple times as he drove, buzzing with messages no doubt from Sam and Castiel, but he simply continued to ignore it and let it ring away in the backseat. He only saw them once more when both of their cars skidded to a halt on the road leading up to the airbase. His tires let out a gruesome screech and the car door groaned tremendously as he threw it open and staggered out with a cloud of bitter smoke. The Impala slid to a halt a few metres behind him and the trio, all unharmed, clambered out of the car.

Crowley turned forwards. His eyes settled on a short woman with eccentric orange hair that puffed out around her face. Rings adorned almost each of her fingers, necklaces and a scarf dangling from her neck, and her little heels clicked on the floor when she turned to smile at Crowley.

"Aziraphale," he breathed, for he could see the angel shining behind her eyes, see his wings extend in a different plane of reality. 

"You made it!" Grinned Aziraphale, tottering over on short legs. Crowley regarded this new, hopefully temporary, form of his, and he quirked an eyebrow. He held himself back from simply melting into the angel's presence.

"Nice dress," he commented, lips twitching up. The woman's cheeks heated and Aziraphale looked down at the garb, pinching the fabric.

"Ah, yes, thank you." He turned to look at the trio of hunters hurriedly approaching after raiding the Impala's trunk of what was surely every weapon in it; holy water dangled from their hips, guns settled in their hands, knives on their belts. "Oh! Hello," he greeted, offering a smile. "The more the merrier," he commented. Crowley glanced at the man holding a ridiculously large gun with Aziraphale. 

"Certainly," Crowley muttered. He shook his head and opened his mouth to say something when there was a loud bang from behind. Everyone jumped, turning with wide eyes to look at Crowley's Bentley that had burst into flames, wheels tumbling down the road, windows shattered, two doors falling off its hinges. Crowley felt a pang of pain and fear tighten in his chest, squeeze his heart painfully, and a small whimper left his lips. 

He'd had his Bentley for _decades._ He'd not let it get a single scratch, not a single dent. He had kept it perfectly clean, as good as the day it had been made. He staggered over to the remains of his car, dropping to his knees in front of it. The drivers side door was still rocking on the ground. A small part of the car had been blown off and Crowley snatched it up, holding it in his hand. He heard footsteps slowly approach and Dean said; "I'm sorry, man."

Crowley shook his head. "She was a good car," he breathed. Flames tore apart the paint on the car, melted the leather seats and the spare sunglasses in the glove box. 

"Not to hurry anyone along," said Aziraphale, "but the soldier won't let us in and we're running on borrowed time."

"I am having a moment!" Yelled back Crowley, his voice wavering.

"Let him have a moment," uttered Dean.

He closed his eyes, forced himself to accept the reality that was his Bentley was gone. Irreversibly gone. He pressed a kiss to the part in his hands and whispered a goodbye to his car before hauling himself to his feet. His feet carried him towards everyone else and Aziraphale pointed at the little guard box to the side of the gate. "He won't let us in," he whined, and Crowley waved his hand dismissively.

"I did try and tell 'im," began the previously quiet older man that seemed to have tagged along with Aziraphale. He lifted his hand up to point at the soldier, glaring. "For his own good, he ought to let us in, else I'd have to use my finger on 'im. He just ain't doing it." He shook his head and scoffed, shaking his fist towards the guard box. Crowley shared a look, expression pinched and awkward.

"I've got it," he said, offering a tight-lipped twitch of his lips that was supposed to be a smile. He took a few steps towards the little guard box but he didn't get any further as a bell rang, high pitched and childish. Crowley jumped out of the way of an approaching bike, narrowly missing being ran over by the group of children that seemed to appear from nowhere. The gates pulled open without permission from the soldier and the group of children rode right in. 

Everyone seemed to share a moment of confused silence as if crickets had just stolen their train of thought. Then, like a gun's trigger, everyone bolted forwards, taking the opportunity to run right into the base after the soldier, whom was yelling for the kids to get back. Crowley's feet pounded the ground, hurrying by Aziraphale's side (he was alive, he reassured himself, alive, alive, alive.)

The airbase was large, with soldiers slumped on the floor, unresponsive. There was a beeping coming from somewhere, a flashing light above one bunker, and Crowley leaned closer to Aziraphale. "Uh, do you have a plan?" He asked, a little breathless. The woman's face pinched, eyes flicking to the man with the gun that looked more like a toy than anything else.

"Well, there's that."

Crowley grimaced. The thing wasn't just some toy, but something they fully intended to use on the antichrist. It wouldn't be pretty. And, not to mention, there were children that had just rode on in.

Then it dawned on him. Children, as in eleven year olds, as in the _antichrist_. Crowley almost up and fainted at the realisation and he fanned himself with his hand, blowing out a long breath. 

"You can't shoot a child," Sam said, looking rather horrified by the notion. So did Dean; their faces grim and tight, lips turned down into a disapproving frown. 

"None of us want to," retorted Crowley, his yellow eyes cold. As if any of them were simply raring to point that thing at a child and pull the trigger. But Armageddon wouldn't wait for morals. 

The children had stopped outside the bunker with the flashing light, and the kid with the dog - the Satan damned hellhound turned puppy - had simply made all of the approaching soldiers fall into a deep sleep, piled up on the floor. 

"Is… is one of them the antichrist?" Murmured Sam, and Crowley shared a look with Castiel.

The man had been right. The antichrist had grown up as a normal kid, and he was...  _good._

Again, Crowley felt light headed. Everything was so thoroughly fucked up. Hell and Heaven would pull out all the stops to punish them for this colossal mistake. 

"Children?" Called Aziraphale, inching closer. "Which, er, which one of you is Adam Young?" He asked, and Crowley rolled his eyes at the angel. Awkwardly, the boy with the dog by his feet raised his hand. 

"Are you here to fight us?" He asked, sounding thoroughly unamused and bored by the idea. Aziraphale shuffled sheepishly on the spot.

"Well..." He said, trailing off and bobbing his head side to side. He wrung his hands awkwardly, eyes flicking to the old man and his ridiculous gun. Once more, Crowley grimaced. 

"I'm not evil," said the boy. His eyes looked a bit distant as he regarded the bunker, and then he frowned, his eyes soft and sad. "I don't want to hurt anyone. Not again." At this, he looked at his friends with guilt and shame. His friends shook their heads dismissively, offering soft words of forgiveness. Crowley's stomach twisted in guilt and he had to look away, his hands in his pockets. 

"He grew up in a normal family," murmured Sam, "and he grew up good. This whole thing, Armageddon; it doesn't need to happen."

The antichrist nodded. He looked more comfortable to have someone on his side. "I know what they want me to do," he said. "And I'm not going to. I don't want to hurt people. But they're here."

Everyone looked to the bunker. The siren echoed from within, a blaring, shrill alarm. The horsemen. No doubt they were using the missiles here to flatten out the land first, before the antichrist would split the ground and let Hell spill out. 

"We need to deal with the horsemen, then," said Dean, as if it was the most simple task in the world, no more than shoving some laundry into a washing machine. Crowley and Aziraphale let out a long sigh.

"I wish I had thought of that," muttered Crowley. Dean glared at him. "It's the horsemen of the apocalypse! How would you suggest we kill Death?" He asked, cocking his head to the side. Dean's cheeks flushed warm and he glanced aside, shaking his head. 

"I can," said Adam. "I must be able to, anyway."

Crowley looked at Aziraphale. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and then shrugged.

"I mean, maybe." Crowley shrugged helplessly, risking a glance at the kid. He had expected... someone worse. He knew that the antichrist would only be eleven years old, but nonetheless he had expected someone fearful. Someone with dark eyes, harsh comments, already burning this place down to the ground with hellfire. Not a gentle spoken, hesitant boy who seemed already scared of his powers, who wanted to avoid Armageddon as much as all of them.

"We'll all help," said Sam, taking a step forwards. "We're here to fight."

Perhaps... perhaps, thought Crowley, with all of them, with the antichrist (mainly the antichrist) they might just be able to do it. He had yet to truly see the raw power of the antichrist in action, but he could feel it; like little surges, waves, pulses of energy radiating from the boy. He was Hell in a human, a shard of the Devil, and arguably one of the most powerful beings in all of Creation, if not the most powerful. And he wasn't going to fulfil any of the many prophecies in which he decimated them all. 

Crowley felt like he had whiplash. He was going to need another century to sleep just to come to terms with everything that had happened today. 

"Yes," Aziraphale agreed, "we're here to fight. It'd be... a great deal easier if you were to... be on our side." He offered a sheepish, hopeful smile, fingers with painted nails fiddling with the hem of his outfit. Adam looked at his friends who responded with nods and smiles. 

"It's the right thing to do," said one of them. "You can do it. Fix all of this."

He expelled a great sigh and turned to look at the bunker. Then, in a strong, steady voice, the kid called out; "I'm here! Come to me!"

Silence echoed around them and Crowley could heart blood roaring in his ears like the crashing of a volatile storm at sea. His heart pounded, heavy and fast, and his palms felt clammy. 

The horsemen were not beings to underestimate, to think little of. They were immensely powerful, warping the world around them with a simple thought, influencing the world and the people in it. He had never seen or met one of them, and he had always been perfectly fine with that. He took a few steps back, distancing himself from Adam. His hands clenched into fists by his side, his eyes trained on the bunker, and they waited.

It did not take long. The door swung open and out walked the four of them, looking utterly ecstatic. Shock crossed their faces at the crowd that was with Adam rather than the antichrist standing their by himself, but they recovered easily; ignoring everyone and striding up to them. 

Their entire beings simply oozed power and darkness. War made his skin crawl and Pollution made his lungs wheeze like they were full of dust. Famine sucked the energy right out of him and Death hypnotised him; threatened to lull him into such an everlasting peace that his thudding heart slowed, calmed, and threatened to stop altogether. He had to pull his gaze away quickly for fear that it would do exactly that. Castiel held a hand out in front of Dean and Sam to prevent them from running straight at them, and everyone simply watched.

"Our Dark Lord," grinned War, her eyes burning into Adam. Her face was stained with blood already, her hair flowing back over her shoulders, her eyes as bright and dangerous as fire. Beside her, Famine was calm and composed, dressed up and regarding Adam with a brave, respectful face. Pollution was impassive, their hands loose by their side, a tainted crown upon their messy hair. Death; he stood tall, darkness rolling off him like smoke. On another plane of reality, Castiel, Aziraphale and Crowley (and Adam) could see his wings, tucked neatly into his back, an endless expanse of space and void in the shape of feathers. "Who are these silly people?" She asked, curious and amused as she regarded the many people around them. She looked at Crowley and then nodded. "You, I understand. Demonic escort? How thoughtful of Hell." Crowley said not a word, his lips kept tight together. She quickly glossed over him, turning to the kids. "Friends, I assume. Only natural. Now, we've no time to waste, you understand." Her eyes shone, her lips up in a vicious smile. "It's starting. The missiles should get rid of any interference, but you need to open Hell for us." 

Adam - Hell, all of his normal friends, too - did not even look frightened. He looked all of them in the eye and didn't move an inch, didn't falter or waver. It was, in all honesty, impressive. Even more so when the kid went and straight up said; "no."

"No?" Echoed war, and then she laughed. She inched closer to him and put her hands on her knees, lowering herself to his level. "You can't just say  _no_ to Armageddon, kid. It's already started. Look; don't you _want_ to rule the world? Isn't that any kid's dream?" She raised an eyebrow curiously, looking over Adam and each of his friends. 

"No," repeated Adam. "I like the world as it is. I don't want to destroy it. I don't want to rule it." His eyebrows furrowed and he looked around. "I want you to stop."

"You have got to be kidding me," drawled Pollution. Their throat sounded rough, their voice rasping like that of a chain smoker. 

"This is why you were created," said Famine, his voice level. "You don't have a say in this. You need to open Hell."

Adam shook his head. "I get to do what I want to," he insisted, "and I don't want to open Hell. I want you all to go away."

War shook her head, her tongue running over her teeth in irritation as if she couldn't believe what was going on. Crowley, too, was quite awe struck. "One last chance, kid," she said. Her hand twitched by her side and in her grasp materialised a flaming sword; long, sharp and hot. She clasped it in both of her hands, holding it out in front of her, and her lips bore a teasing, smug grin. 

Adam stared impassively at the sword as if it was nothing more than a stick. When War raised it above her head, aimed it towards Adam, he didn't move.

Dean did. His shotgun that he had taken from his Impala emptied its shells into War, denting her armour and leaving steaming bullet holes. She didn't flinch. She blinked, slightly shocked but unhurt, and she turned on him with an angry look. 

"Oh," she laughed. "You should not have done that." She turned on him and Sam followed quickly, cocking his gun and backing his brother up. Crowley stepped back, throwing a hand out to pull with him Aziraphale and the woman he was cooperating with, while Castiel surged forwards, brandishing his own heavenly blade. It clashed with War's sword, a loud, metallic screech grating against Crowley's ears, and Crowley hardly wanted to watch. They were going to get themselves killed, right then and there. He understood that Adam was a kid, but nonetheless he was also the Satan-damned _antichrist_. He could handle War. Probably.

With a vicious thrust from Castiel, War's blade slipped from her hand, clattering to the floor and landing right at Adam's feet. Everyone paused, staring at it. Then, Adam bent down and picked it up. He twirled it curiously in his hand, the flames crackling and popping, dancing on the edges of the blade. He held it up and then turned to his friends.

"I think we should stop them," he said. "They don't get to ruin our world."

"Adults," sneered one of the kids. Adam held out the sword and, after only a moment's hesitation, the kid took it. 

Now, when Crowley was driving to the airbase, he did not expect this. He did not expect this when Hastur handed him to the antichrist as a baby in a little basket. He did not expect these children - three of which that weren't even supernaturally inclined - to so readily wield War's sword. And yet they did; with some kind of pent up, child rage, they all wielded War's sword, each taking out a horseman. Crowley decided that, in that moment, human children were  _terrifying._

Adam was the last to take it in his hands. He regarded Death, the last of the horsemen, with such a cool expression that it made Crowley want to look away. Death did not look alarmed at the sudden death of his fellow horsemen, but that may have simply been because of the fact that he didn't have a face to look alarmed with, or the fact that he was Death. He would know exactly where they were going, if anywhere. 

"I am impressed," he told Adam. His voice felt ethereal, as if it wasn't coming from his body but rather from everywhere else. It was almost painful to listen to, something that they shouldn't be able to hear. "Truly. Unimaginable power... so much potential. But what do you think you can do to me, boy?" He asked. "You cannot kill Death." 

Adam looked at the sword that had fell the previous three horsemen. "I think I can," he replied. "I don't think you can stop me." He didn't wait for Death's response, stepping forwards and thrusting the sword directly into his torso. A crack echoed from it, much alike the shatter of porcelain, and Death went rigid. Beyond him, his wings thrust forwards into this plane of reality, unfurling behind his shoulders. They were large, huge, and held galaxies in each feather. And then they exploded like a star, devouring Death in a dark void, and ash piled beneath where he had been. The sword clattered to the floor and stopped flaming, and everyone waited with held breath. 

"Well," said Dean. "That... that was surprisingly easy."

Castiel looked hesitant. He shared a look with Crowley who pressed his lips together and shook his head. It was not yet over and easy, and they knew it.

"I mean... thank you," said Adam, turning to look at them. 

"Oh, I am so glad that you turned out to be good," said the woman, in charge of her body for the time being. "I really didn't want to hurt you." 

Adam's lips twitched slightly in amusement and he scratched the back of his neck. "Yeah... me too. Wait; what was wrong earlier?" He asked, scrutinising her. "You sounded different... there's two of you. That's not right. You shouldn't be like that." And, just like that, Crowley watched as the woman shuddered tremendously and Aziraphale, in his original form, was torn from the woman. He took a moment to gather his bearings, smoothing out his suit and shaking himself out. He looked rather pleased to have his own body again, smiling at Adam.

"Ah, well, thank you very much for that," he said. Crowley inched closer to the angel, close enough to brush his hand over Aziraphale's. He was not ghostly, not wavering and incorporeal; he stood, solid and real, and very much alive. Crowley let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. 

"Is… is that it, then?" Asked one of the kids, looking around awkwardly. "Is that it all over?"

The answer came in the form of a roll of thunder and a strike of lightening. Crowley's stomach cramped in the flare of pain that Beelebub's entrance brought him, and he swallowed it down. Nonetheless, Sam's hand caught his elbow when he dipped for a moment. 

"Not yet," he grunted, rubbing his chest. Gabriel and Beelzebub approached slowly, threateningly, and Crowley, Aziraphale and Castiel stood a little straighter. In an unconscious reflex, they parted ways slightly, putting a little more distance between angel and demon.

"How did I know I would find you two here together," said Gabriel, eyes narrowing, lips up in a mock smile. He pointed vigorously at Crowley and Aziraphale, shaking his head and letting out a bitter laugh. "We spoke about this, Aziraphale! Not long ago!" He placed his hands on his hips and shook his head once more. "And Castiel; oh, Castiel. You're Michael and Zachariah's problem, and yet you end up here. Do you see this?" He turned to Beelzebub, who was gazing with cloudy eyes, flies buzzing around them. Beelzebub let out a heavy sigh and regarded the clipboard in their hands. 

"So much paperwork," they muttered disapprovingly. Their eyes rolled up to Crowley. "At least this is the last time you can thoroughly fuck anything up." Their fingers rubbed the bridge of their nose as if a migraine pounded beneath their skin. "You will come with me, Crawly."

"And you two," Gabriel turned on the angels. "Will come back with me." He turned to Adam, watching with narrowed eyes. Gabriel smiled and lumbered over. He crouched slightly to catch his eyes. "Hey there, kiddo. So, I know this kicked off to a bad start but, uh, listen here. This is very important; we can't avoid this war. We _need_ this war. And you and your, er, your _friends_ , you'll all come out on top. Look; you can have full reign over Africa, how about that? I'll even throw in half of Europe, just for you lot. It's a win-win for you!"

"No," scoffed Adam, folding his arms across his chest. "I won't let you ruin this world for more bloodshed."

"There isn't a no option," said Beelzebub. "It'd be easier if you just cooperated. The last thing we would want is your father coming up and having to ground you because you couldn't follow your one task. Just do it." Beelzebub rolled their eyes and looked down at their clipboard. A pen clicked in their hands once, twice, thrice, and then set it aside in their pocket. 

"My... dad?" Echoed Adam. 

"Of course," drawled Beelzebub. "Your father, the Dark Lord, Satan. He would be most unimpressed with you."

"So," called Gabriel, clapping his hands together, "just get it kick started so we can do this war and everything'll be fine! Dear ol' dad won't have to come down and give you your first grounding-"

"Satan isn't my dad," snapped Adam. "He isn't."

"Of course he is," snorted Beelzebub. They seemed thoroughly done with all of this tomfoolery, eager to just continue with this war and get all of this over with. Crowley couldn't imagine it would be easy to make thousands of bloodthirsty demons stand down. 

"I am not evil!" Snapped Adam, his hands curled into tight, shaking fists. The ground shook lightly beneath Crowley's feet, radiated Adam's anger and insult. "Go away! Leave us alone!" His hands waved them away and, sure enough, they were gone. Simply disappeared; gone back to Heaven and Hell and far from them. 

The ground did not stop shaking. It was not Adam's fault. 

They had perhaps a millisecond of peace to let out a shaky breath before perhaps the real challenge happened. Something in Crowley twisted and pulled, as if something had latched onto him like an anchor and was using him like a cliff face to climb up, digging its claws in and tearing him up. His knees buckled with the pure intensity of it, hitting the ground hard, and he couldn't help the strained noise that fell past his lips. His hand clutched at his chest as if that could possibly help ease the surge of hellfire in his core. 

Aziraphale was by his side, hands on his shoulders. "Crowley? Crowley, what is it? What's wrong?" He asked, voice rising in fear and concern. Crowley shook his head.

"Dear God..." he breathed. 

Satan should not be able to leave Hell. He had been trapped in his own cage immediately after the Fall and he had not left since; he should not be able to now. He had assumed Beelzebub's talk of Satan coming up to see his son was simply that; talk. Apparently not.

Crowley had been scared upon driving to Armageddon. Crowley had been terrified upon thinking that Aziraphale had died. He had been afraid upon seeing the antichrist and the horsemen. Satan, however...

Satan was different. He was the Devil, a monster through and through. He was kept in the deepest, darkest part of Hell for a very good reason. He had moulded demons and Hell around him, and he was Hell incarnate. Everything evil and sinful in the world.

He was also Lucifer. He was his brother in another lifetime, curious and caring and too questioning for his own good. 

And here he was. The ground split open like a ravine and smoke curled from it, bitter and stinging, and Crowley felt like a limp ragdoll as Aziraphale and Dean hauled him onto his feet. Footsteps echoed from the ravine, slow and steady, and there he was. Shaggy brown hair, burning eyes and charred skin from his raw power. His teeth were sharp in a grin and in his shadow extended two large, skeletal wings. It made Crowley want to sob. He had had such divine wings, once. 

"Hello," he said, and his eyes settled on Crowley, hanging from two angels with pale skin and wide eyes. "Brother." His smile, if possible, widened, something sharp and dangerous and unlike the soft, playful grin of the angel Crowley knew. His head tipped to the side, regarding him and his weak knees, his serpentine eyes and his charred wings hidden on another plane. 

"Do not - do not come any closer!" Squawked Aziraphale, angling his body in front of Crowley slightly. It snapped him out of his daze, out of his memories of cosmos and angels and brothers, and he stood up a little straighter, found his feet beneath him once more. He shoved Aziraphale back a bit, though he did not say a thing. Lucifer only grinned, then turned instead to Adam.

"And my son, oh. I couldn't be there for your growing up, and I'm sorry. But now I'm out."

"I am not your son," seethed Adam. "You are not my real dad."

Lucifer looked extremely taken aback. "What are you talking about? Of course I am," he scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous. You're my son and I love you."

"No, you don't," Adam snapped. He glared up at Lucifer, dark and unforgiving. "Don't lie to me. You aren't my dad. I don't want you here."

"Adam-"

"Leave! Go away!" 

Lucifer hesitated for a moment. He watched Adam, and even Crowley could feel the power pulsating off him, hot and threatening. Lucifer's lips pressed together. They turned upwards. His eyes met Crowley's. His voice echoed in his skull.

_Seems I've missed a lot, brother. We need to catch up._

Crowley swallowed. He longed to reach out to him, urged to get away. Then Lucifer winked and disappeared a second before the antichrist could banish him back to his cage. The ground sealed up like a healed wound and the missiles that had been ready to launch did not, failing and crashing suddenly. Outside the airbase, his Bentley mended itself together, and Aziraphale's books in his motel room came back to life as if they were never burnt. The horsemen were gone and there was no catalyst for war, no battlefield for celestial and infernal beings to rage on. The antichrist was good and the world continued to turn, unchanged. 

Everyone was fine. Adam's father - his real father, dubbed by Adam himself - drove out of a plume of smoke, dazed and confused, and he drove the kids home while talking about the need to ground Adam. The woman they had ran over appeared with her computer-breaking boyfriend, and the eccentric woman and witch hunter bickered. Castiel was silent and suspicious when he regarded Crowley, and Aziraphale fussed over the demon, trying to make a point of clarifying the fact that everything was  _fine._ Sam and Dean were discussing "well, is this it? That's it, then. No war, no Armageddon, no Lucifer. I need a beer."

"I could do with a glass or two of wine," admitted Aziraphale, sheepish and still brushing soot off of Crowley's clothes. "How about it? Sushi? Italian? Crowley?" He was concerned, eyebrows pinched and cheeks flushed. Crowley swallowed and stood up, turning to a hopeful Aziraphale. He offered what he hoped was a genuine smile.

"Certainly. I could do with a drink," he said. 

The world did not end. Crowley thought it would be easier if it had. The world did not end yet, but Crowley could not celebrate. There was more to come and the others didn't understand, didn't know. 

When Aziraphale smiled softly at Crowley, Crowley could hardly muster one back.

It was not over. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did want to include the whole body swap scene, but I decided that this ending is more relevant to my plot and I would literally just end up rewriting the script for that scene. But yes; the body swap scene did happen afterwards.
> 
> Anywho; thank you all so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it, and I will be writing a sequel for post-Armageddon chaos, in which you can look forwards to a lot of angelic angst, pining, and Winchester bullshittery.


End file.
